Of Adoration and Chaos
by frombluetored
Summary: Someone once told them their love couldn't change the world. The comment was disregarded. [AU. A series of lighthearted oneshots following the Doctor and Clara's relationship.]
1. Curiosity in Small Places

**A/n: **This is the first oneshot of (hopefully) many. All are set in the same universe that's established in this oneshot and are 100% Human!11/Clara focused. Most will be unabashed fluff. Because they're oneshots, there's no linear layout for the chapters (as in, this first one focuses on Clara and 11 in their early thirties as parents, whereas the next one could feature them on their first date or as children playing in the street together, etc. etc.). Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_three mischievous children, one stuck lift, and a surplus of unconditional love_

* * *

It was once said to Clara, many years ago, that miracles could happen if only one wished hard enough. But she wished with all her might that her family might be on time for something once—just _once_—and here they were.

"—so then you loop this shoelace around the other, like so…and then take this one and pass it underneath the other—"

"Daddy."

"—no, no, not like that, honey. You have to—okay, please don't throw the shoe…don't throw the shoe! It'll never tie that way!"

"Daaaaaaaaddyyyyyy!"

"LOTTIE! I SAID DO _NOT_ THROW THE—_OUCH_!"

"DADDY! IT'S _IMPORTANT!_"

"Yes, yes, what is it, Ellabell? I'm trying to help Lottie tie her—_do not tie the shoelaces to the cat! CLARA!" _

Clara, currently attempting to wrestle her son into his button down, ignored her husband's cry for help. She could only imagine what Ellabell was screaming about (the child was almost as mischievous as her father), but she was too busy thinking with mute terror about the ticking clock. They were supposed to be out of the house twenty minutes ago. They should have been in the car on their way to the building by now. Instead, she was in a wrestling match with her three-year-old, the Doctor was giving shoelace tying lessons to her incredibly clever daughter that somehow could _not_ master it no matter how hard they tried, and God only knew what the four-year-old was up to. She was never going to get promoted to anything.

When her son inadvertently socked her in the face in his mad attempts to wiggle out of her arms, she felt her patience snap. She gripped his arms tightly and peered into his brown eyes.

"Bristol, if you don't sit still and let me put this shirt on, I'm going to ban all sweets for two months. _Two months!_" She whispered fiercely, her tone low and threatening. The boy stared at her challengingly, his eyes appraising his mother's expression like he was looking for a chink in her resolve. When he found nothing but steely determination, he groaned. Then he went slack in her arms, flopping over so his face was almost touching the floor.

"I surrender." He moaned dramatically.

"That's what I thought," Clara murmured underneath her breath, her eyes narrowed as she righted her son and quickly dressed him. It went a lot quicker when he wasn't throwing a tantrum.

Once she had her battle won, she noted that she hadn't heard a peep from the others in a while. She peered nervously out the doorway to his bedroom and took his small, sticky hand, pulling him behind her.

"Let's go check on Daddy and the girls," she suggested.

She was already thinking of ways to punish her husband for whatever inappropriately timed games he had begun with the girls (she was expecting anything from a spontaneous baking experiment to an abrupt board game) as she practically jogged into the family room. Her husband—self-named the Doctor and rightly so—hated these events more than her children did and thought every moment was a moment to play. His reluctance for timeliness was the only thing they'd fought about in their many years of marriage. To Clara's chagrin, time hadn't changed his habit of showing up hours late for events (if he even made it to them at all). It was a running joke in Clara's family, the punchline being the fact that he had been late to two of his children's births. He was only on time for Bristol's because Clara wouldn't let him go anywhere the last few weeks of her pregnancy, not even to the grocers, convinced he'd somehow end up in Paris by accident (_"That was only one time!"_ _he'd protested). _

So when Clara walked into the family room and found all three sitting innocently on the couch, dressed perfectly from head to toe with pristine smiles on their faces, she was instantly horrified.

"Oh, Christ, what did you do?" She asked all three. Her hand dropped from Bristol's as she rested both on her hips. She looked expectantly at each of their guilty faces, saving her husband's for last. He looked torn between humor and fear.

"Clara, my beautiful Clara, that dress looks absolutely—"

Clara lifted her hand, cutting off her husband's flattery. She leveled a look his way that made him gulp. She lifted an eyebrow. He tugged nervously at his bowtie. Then, after a tense five seconds, they all broke.

"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!"

"I WAS JUST TRYING TO TEACH LOTTIE TO TIE, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT ELLABELL WAS DOING!"

"I TOLD THEM TO STICK THEIR HAND DOWN THERE BUT THEY WOULDN'T AND THEN—"

Bristol stomped his small foot.

"YOU HAVE TO TAKE TURNS!" He shrieked, silencing his siblings and father. Clara spared him a proud beam, smoothing his hair back lovingly as she turned her gaze to her now quiet family once more.

"What happened?" She asked slowly, her eyes glued on the Doctor.

He inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly, steeling himself for whatever reaction was coming from his wife.

"Ellabell dropped the keys down the toilet!" He blurted, pointing an accusing finger at their four-year-old, who peered down at her stockings in shame.

Clara blinked. Her heart began sliding down to her toes as his words sank into her.

"What keys?" She breathed, already knowing the answer but dreading it anyway.

He mumbled something quietly underneath his breath that Clara didn't catch. She walked forward and stood between his parted legs, settling her hands on his shoulders seriously.

"Doctor! What keys?!" She repeated.

"_The _keys!" He wailed in despair, his face twisting with guilt. "Your keys! The car and the house and your dad's and the beach house and my office and your office!" He reached up and grabbed her hips, staring up at her with a miserable expression. "Please don't ban sweets from the house again, Ellabell didn't mean to do it, I swear! I can't live that long without Jammie Dodgers again! I can't, I'll die!"

He dramatically fell back against the couch cushions as if to demonstrate his point. Clara rolled her eyes and turned her gaze to her guilty daughter.

"Ellabell?" She asked.

Ellabell took a deep breath.

"I wanted to see if they would sink or float." She explained. Her small face brightened considerably for a moment as she looked up at her mother. "They sank, mummy. Big time."

Clara's voice was sour. "I'm sure they did, Ellie. And why exactly did you flush it?"

Ellabell tapped her chin (which was, unfortunately, her father's). "Well, I wanted to see if it was too big to go down."

Clara gritted her teeth. "And was it?"

Ellabell beamed. "No! It went down the very first time I flushed! I was surprised. Are you surprised to hear that, Mummy? Did you think all those heavy keys would fit?"

She stared expectantly at her mother, her green eyes widened with happy curiosity. The Doctor was watching his wife hesitantly, and after she had stared incredulously at Ellabell for twenty seconds without responding, he leaned over and hissed in Ellabell's ear.

"This is when you apologize." He suggested.

Ellabell's eyes widened slowly, suddenly realizing her mother didn't find the science experiment worth the sacrifice.

"Oh. I'm sorry." She said, and then she promptly began wailing, caving underneath her mother's angry look.

Clara took one look at her and threw her hands up in the air.

"That's it. We're not going tonight."

Bristol's joyful cheer was silenced the minute the Doctor began shaking his head profusely at him, mouthing _no!_ and shooting Clara fearful looks. Lottie tugged on her father's arm.

"Does this mean you can help me with my shoes now?" She stage-whispered.

Ellabell slid off the couch and stumbled over to Clara, wrapping her arms around her waist and burrowing her face into her swollen stomach as she sobbed. Clara rubbed her back, feeling her anger evaporating even as she tried to hang onto it. She sighed and lowered down with a little difficulty so she was face-to-face with her daughter.

"Next time you want to see if something sinks, tell me and we can test it in a bucket, okay? All those keys were very important. Mummy needed them and now I'm going to have to pray the plumber can fish them out." She explained gently.

Ellabell nodded and reached up, wiping her snot on her bare arm. Clara grimaced.

"Go grab some tissues," she suggested gently, and Ellabell took off without a moment's hesitation.

Clara rose slowly to her feet and then turned her back on the Doctor and Lottie, kneading her forehead and taking a deep breath. She had hoped to make a good impression at this staff party. It was a Christmas party for the employees and their families and her boss was extremely family-oriented. Showing up with her normal, happy, functioning family was supposed to earn her the upper hand. Instead she had to admit it to herself: she didn't have a normal family. Not that she ever wanted one, but at times like this, it would have made her life a hell of a lot easier. She needed the promotion now, because she had spent a year getting on her boss's good side and if she didn't put the final nail in the coffin now, before her maternity leave, she thought her long absence might negate all she had worked for. They'd replace her and forget about her and she'd never get the promotion.

"Clara?" The Doctor asked hesitantly.

"This is all your fault. All three got your cleverness." She replied, her back still to him. She pressed a hand to her stomach. "And I just know this one will as well. It's only a matter of time before someone sets the house on fire 'just to see what happens'."

"I caught her in time before the curtains caught flame, don't worry." The Doctor soothed.

Clara laughed despite herself, unsure if the Doctor was joking or serious. She decided she didn't want to know either way. When she heard him tell Lottie to wait in the foyer with her siblings, Clara smiled. She could feel her anger and stress evaporating before the Doctor even said anything at all.

He set his hands on her shoulders and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck. He nuzzled the exposed skin there, the curve of his smile making Clara feel a sudden glow of happiness.

"I love when you wear your hair like this. It makes me think of our wedding." He told her absently, his long fingers caressing her hairline almost thoughtfully. She smiled despite herself.

"Me too. That's why I do it that way." She turned a little reluctantly and faced him, letting her hands fall to her stomach where they normally rested.

"Remember our hippie phase?" She asked suddenly, her eyes crinkling as she grinned.

He beamed in response and wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

"Pretty well. If I remember correctly, you were going to burn your bras and I was going to grow a beard and take up beekeeping."

She laughed and rolled her eyes at her expanded middle. "And we were going to never, ever have children."

The Doctor did a double take at her stomach, his eyes widening comically.

"Whoa! When did that happen?! I just stepped out to check on my bees and now—this!" He gestured at her stomach.

She laughed. "I think I saw three small humans move in with us as well, while you were outside with your bees."

He smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I've got to fix that lock."

"You've got to. They keep peeing on the beds and _flushing our keys down the toilet._" She ground out the last words, her teeth clenched again as a wave of anger overcame her. It passed when the Doctor's smile widened.

"And I bet they aren't even paying rent, are they? The little criminals!"

They laughed with each other, their laughter trailing off to soft smiles. The Doctor took another step forward and settled his palm on her stomach, causing the baby to kick painfully at Clara's ribcage.

"I love our mad life and our mad children and my mad wife. It's so much better than beekeeping." He told her.

"I guess it beats making bracelets all day. And bras have grown on me." She teased. Then she rose up onto her tiptoes and tapped the Doctor's nose. "And I'm rather fond of my mad husband."

He became aware of the three sets of little eyes watching them from the doorway.

"And what about the little criminals?" He asked.

Clara beamed. "Surprisingly, they've grown on me." She joked. She glanced down at her stomach. "Pretty literally."

The Doctor gave her hands a final squeeze and then turned, peering seriously at his children.

"All right team! Here's the deal! We've got to get to your mummy's party ASAP! No buts or complaining! And while we are there there will be absolutely _no_ science experiments of any kind! I don't care what inspires you! Is that understood?"

All three groaned, earning them a stern look from their father. Then, begrudgingly, they all murmured agreement.

"Fantastic." The Doctor turned back to Clara. "I've already called a car. They're parked out front waiting."

Clara smiled despite herself and settled her hands on his shoulders. She pressed down and lifted herself up enough to press a brief, thankful kiss to his lips.

"You're the best." She told him, earning her a cocky bowtie-adjustment. His ego would probably be too swollen the rest of the night to even fit in the car, but they'd have to deal.

The family trudged out front, the Doctor practically dragging Bristol by the hand. Once they were in the back of the cab—with Bristol on the Doctor's lap, Ellabell on the edge of Clara's knees, and Lottie shoved in the small space between her parents—Clara began scanning her children's appearances for faults. She noticed a run in Lottie's red stockings almost immediately, but she'd expected that. She fished out the clear fingernail polish in her purse and began shakily applying it to the run in the six-year-old's tights, ignoring her complaints.

"We're like sardines in this thing!" Ellabell shared. "Mummy, will we have to take two cars when Miles is born?"

It took her a few minutes to process her question, as she was already leaning across Lottie's lap to fix Bristol's socks.

"No, honey, he can just sit on Lottie's lap." She murmured absently.

Ellabell _oh_'ed. Lottie added her five cents to the conversation. "But we can't have any more brothers or sisters because then we'd really have to take another car."

Clara sat back up, Bristol's socks officially folded over correctly, and shot the Doctor a look.

"That's right, Lottie. No more brothers or sisters. It'd be bad for the environment to take two cars." The Doctor agreed. Clara nodded firmly. But then she remembered that they said that every time.

Unfortunately, this triggered unexpected and unnecessary wailing from Ellabell, who spent the rest of the ride sniffling about the fact that she wanted a little sister, not _another_ _stinky brother_, earning her an angry smack from Bristol, who was scolded by Clara for hitting. Then he began sulking. Clara told Ellabell to complain to her father about the baby being a boy, as it was technically his doing (albeit it was out of his control), and Ellabell spent a good amount of time giving him the cold shoulder, much to his annoyance. By the time the car pulled up to the building, pretty much everyone was cross with one another. Clara looped her arm with her husband's once they were free from the car and leaned in to whisper to him.

"Sod it, next time we're taking two cabs anyway." She hissed.

He pressed an exasperated kiss to the top of her head. "Agreed. We'll just recycle more to balance it out."

Clara and the Doctor grabbed hold of a child's hand, keeping their eyes on their eldest as they walked into the large, sleek building. They stopped in front of the lifts, jumping slightly when all three of their children let out excited yelps.

"AMY! AMY AMY AMY!"

The redhead was immediately latched onto by three different sets of arms before she even came to a complete stop. Clara rushed forward to free her children's godmother from their restrictive holds, but Amy shooed her off.

"They're fine, they're fine, I've been missing them!" She assured Clara. She reached down and hugged each in turn, lifting her head to give her best friend a smile. He returned it, still hovering near the lifts.

"Give Amy some breathing room, you little monsters!" The Doctor teased. The kids fell into giggles and Bristol let go of Amy for the sake of stomping around her in circles, growling like a monster. The other two joined in, their giggles filling the cavernous lobby, and Amy joined Clara and the Doctor back in front of the lifts.

"You're looking large," Amy greeted Clara.

Clara turned to the Doctor. "I'm thinking this baby needs a new godmother."

Amy laughed and reached forward, pulling the other woman into a hug.

"Relax, you look—"

"Do not say glowing. I repeat: do not say I'm glowing. If I hear that word _one more time_…" Clara trailed off angrily.

Amy let go of her and pulled the Doctor into her arms, giving his forehead a friendly kiss.

"I'm guessing you're the guilty party who keeps using the word _glowing_?" She teased him.

He bowed his head. "Well she _is_," he murmured underneath his breath.

Amy clapped him on the shoulder. "I've no sympathy for you, mate. All my sympathy goes to Clara, whom I'm convinced has spent the majority of the last six years of her life pregnant."

Clara shrugged. "The boy at the market always carries my bags out to my car when I'm pregnant. Wasn't quite ready to give that up yet."

Their laughter was interrupted by the chiming of the lift as the doors slid open. Clara and the Doctor herded their children through the doors and followed after them. Amy gave them a wave as the lift filled.

"Still waiting for Rory, he got held up at work." She informed them.

"See you at the top!" The Doctor told her with a grin.

The lift was brimming with people already when someone ran forward, pushing their hand between the wall and the closing door. The man was in his early forties and wearing a casual outfit. He didn't seem to notice how full the lift was and hurried on, causing another passenger to have to shove herself into a corner to keep from being rubbed up against. Clara shifted uncomfortably as the doors closed and drew Bristol closer to her to hopefully generate more room between all of the strangers. She did a quick headcount as it began moving up floors. There were ten people. What was the limit? A quick glance at the wall told her twenty-four, but she didn't see how that many people could have possibly fit. It was bursting with her family of five and the five others.

She scanned her eyes over the others, noticing that her husband was doing the same. There was the forty year old man in his partially unbuttoned shirt, a woman in her fifties that was rapidly texting on her smartphone, a young, attractive couple glowering at Clara's children, and an elderly man who appeared to be snoozing in place. None of them looked particularly threatening. Clara hated to admit it to herself, but the state of the world had made it necessary for her to keep tabs on people like this. Even someone vaguely worrisome was usually watched like a hawk whenever they were near her children, both by Clara and the Doctor.

Bristol turned around to face Clara, accidentally whacking Clara hard in the stomach with his elbow. She grimaced as the baby kicked angrily at her ribs, as if in retaliation.

"Mummy, I've got to wee-wee." He whined loudly.

The couple on the far side shot Clara an angry and threatening look, as if daring her to allow her child to piss in the lift. She briefly entertained the idea of telling him to go for it, but then the Doctor intervened, probably seeing the short glare she shot the blonde woman.

"Just hold it for a moment, okay, buddy?" He whispered to Bristol.

Bristol grabbed his crotch and squirmed.

"I gotta go now." He informed the small group with gritted teeth. Clara looked up nervously to see what floor they were on. Nine. Only five more.

"Really, you should have taken him before."

Clara looked up at the woman, her eyebrows raised. She heard the Doctor murmur _oh dear God_ underneath his breath as she slowly straightened her posture, her hands finding her hipbones. She was about to tear the woman a new one when the lift came to a sudden, shuddering halt. The force of it made several people stumble and jerked the elderly man awake with a gasp. Ellabell began tumbling forward and Clara's heart froze before the Doctor reached out by instinct, pulling her back against him and holding her securely.

It was quiet for a moment as they all righted themselves. Clara set her hands on her son's shoulders and glanced at her family quickly, making sure they were all upright, and then she glanced to see what floor they were on, thinking someone had stopped the lift to get on. But where it normally showed the floor number, it had three dashes.

"Are we there, then?" The iPhone woman asked, lifting her eyes from her phone for the first time.

"What's that mean, Louis?" The blonde woman asked nervously, her dislike for Clara's children fading to panic.

"MUMMY I CAN'T HOLD IT ANYMORE!"

Clara noticed the man with the slightly unbuttoned shirt taking the opportunity to peer down the blonde woman's shirt as she leaned forward, examining the row of buttons. She shot him a look of disgust before turning to her husband.

"Stuck?" She asked him lightly.

He scratched his face nervously. "Appears so."

Clara felt a sudden warmth against her legs. When she glanced down, she saw it was from her son's now wet bottom, as he had peed his pants.

"Christ, Bristol," she murmured.

By now, everyone on the lift had latched onto the word _stuck. _

"Stuck? What do you mean stuck?" The blonde woman's husband, Louis, demanded. He had the air of a rich man who had everything handed to him on a silver platter.

"I always knew these things were more trouble than they were worth," the old man sighed. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"STUCK?! I can't be stuck in here!" The blonde woman shrieked. She then turned to Clara and looked at Bristol accusingly. "I can smell his urine!"

Clara smiled. "Congratulations."

"We can't be stuck. My reception's terrible." The iPhone lady moaned.

Clara saw the Doctor shuffle forward to fiddle with the buttons. She watched him press the emergency call button a few times, frowning when nothing much happened. He tried pressing the ground floor button a few times, but it didn't budge. She began to wonder if perhaps the power had gone out. Maybe the lights had their own power source or were on a generator.

She voiced her thoughts to the Doctor. "You think it's the power?"

He turned to look at her and shuffled back over to his family. He shrugged.

"That's what I was thinking, but there's no way to know."

Ellabell leaned against Clara's side and began sniffling.

"Stuck forever?" She wailed.

Clara didn't have to look up to the know the blonde bitch was giving her the stink eye. She smoothed back Ellabell's hair and smiled at her reassuringly.

"Not forever. Just a little bit."

They all waited tensely for five minutes, talking sparsely amongst themselves. After the first five minutes, everyone in the lift but Clara's family began to grow extremely worried. iPhone Lady had called for help almost immediately after it stopped, but they'd informed her that it could take hours until the technicians were free. Apparently there was something going on at the London Eye that required all on Holiday call. After being told to "hold tight", Louis addressed his girlfriend/wife, who Clara learned was named Cassandra, and began ranting about how "someone" was going to "pay" for "wasting his time". Clara and the Doctor exchanged an eye-roll.

"Well, since we're all stuck on here, I'm Jack Harkness." The leering man in the corner spoke up, revealing an unexpected American accent. "And might I say you've got a great rack." He winked at Clara and shoved past the iPhone lady to extend his hand. She took it carefully and gave him a friendly shake.

The Doctor bristled. "Oi!"

Clara sidestepped his indignation. "Thanks. It's because they're swollen with milk. I'm pregnant, you see."

She expected that brash comment to turn his smirk into a grimace. But instead he winked.

"Well, might I say you look radiant?"

Clara turned to her husband. "Radiant! Now _there_'_s _a fresh word! Much better than glowing." She turned back to Jack. "Thanks, Jack."

The Doctor gently pushed Lottie to the side so he could step forward and take Jack's hand. He shook it rather vigorously.

"Hello. I'm the Doctor. I'm the impregnator." He greeted.

Jack laughed. "Brilliant! Are all four yours?"

"Without a doubt." Clara answered for him, her mind still on Ellabell's experiment earlier.

"How domestic!" Jack cooed. He then turned to Cassandra, even though her posture screamed her distaste of everyone in the lift. "And you've got a lovely everything, my dear."

She stiffened. "I am not your_ dear_, you disgusting, chauvinistic pig. And I don't want to small chat with you. We're stuck in the bloody lift!"

Louis wrapped his arm around her. "Count to ten, Cassandra," he whispered. She shut her eyes and began mouthing numbers. Clara smirked at the Doctor who muffled his laughter behind his hand.

"Can I have my book?" Lottie whispered to Clara.

Clara took a moment to beam proudly at her children, who—despite Bristol's pants-wetting—were handling this situation much better than the other adults. But then again they weren't normal children. They were Oswald-Smiths. She dug Lottie's book out of her bag and Ellabell's coloring book and crayons, passing them to them quietly. Ellabell crawled behind her father's legs so she was wedged between him and wall and began coloring, humming almost silently to herself. Lottie leaned against her mother's side and opened her book.

"Let's change you, Bristol." Clara told her son. "No telling how long we'll be in here."

The iPhone woman turned her phone off to "save battery" and watched as Clara turned her and her son around, so he was facing the wall and she was blocking him from everyone else's view. She thanked her lucky stars that she'd remembered to pack a spare pair of khakis and underwear for him. She changed him swiftly with no complaints from him, which she found a little concerning. Before they turned around she leaned down and kissed his forehead.

"Are you all right?" She asked him softly. "We're not stuck forever and ever, I promise."

He was frowning. "There's lots of people in here. That lady smells."

"I know, baby. It's only for a little bit. Do you want Daddy to hold you?" She volunteered the Doctor, knowing she couldn't hold him with her stomach at its current size. Bristol nodded and shuffled almost pathetically to the Doctor, who was quick to lift him into his arms.

"You and yours are taking this rather well," the iPhone woman spoke up.

Clara waved her hand nonchalantly. "My husband and I spent six months sleeping on the floor of a Tibetan monastery with a newborn and two toddlers. Nothing can faze us."

The woman cocked an eyebrow. "For all our sakes, I hope that's so."

She'd somehow piqued the elderly man's interest. He opened his eyes and peered at her like he was examining her.

"Why?" He asked after careful consideration.

Clara glanced at the Doctor, allowing him to explain this one.

"I'm a surgeon. I was doing volunteer work in China and we lost our Tibet Entry Permits. Nasty business, but I know a guy who knows a guy who knows the 14th Dalai Lama, so we got some accommodations while we worked out the paperwork."

The man brightened considerably. "Ah, so you practice Tibetan Buddhism as well?"

The Doctor floundered. "Ah, no, I'm much more science-oriented."

Cassandra seemed done with her counting. "You don't just _know_ the Dalai Lama. Who are you?!"

Clara and the Doctor exchanged a brief look, their lips curling up into smiles. They'd grown up next door to each other, and as long as Clara had known the Doctor he'd been called that. He had a legal name of course, but it was boring and dull, and he'd always been _the Doctor_ to her. When they were children they used to play a game where whenever someone would ask _Doctor who?_ they'd take turns making up the most outlandish stories they could think of to explain his title.

That same twinkle was in the Doctor's eyes right now.

"Just the Doctor. When I was born, my parents wanted to give me an English name, but they couldn't speak a bit of the language. They kept hearing the nurses say _Doctor!_ and thought it was a name suggestion."

The woman narrowed her eyes as Clara bit back laughter. She saw Ellabell look up curiously, knowing that was untrue, but she didn't say anything. Lottie was too absorbed in her Amelia Williams novel to even hear.

"You don't look foreign." Cassandra said suspiciously.

The Doctor looked at her gravely. "I'm photosensitive. It's a grave tragedy. Lottie has it too."

The woman scoffed like the Doctor was something gross on the bottom of her shoe. Clara reached over and pinched his arse discretely, earning her a scandalized look. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

"Do you think we'll run out of air?" Cassandra asked Louis quietly, her voice pinched.

Jack leaned forward. "If we breathe into each other's mouths it'll save oxygen."

He didn't look the least bit fazed when she began slapping his arm aggressively.

"Hey! We've only been in here for ten minutes, stop hitting!" Clara scolded.

Cassandra turned on her, her cheeks red and her eyes narrowed angrily. "Piss off! And keep your sodding kids quiet! I've got a headache!"

Clara pointed a finger at her. "Hey, these children are my gifts to the world, okay? So watch your mouth." She glanced at Bristol, his sudden movement catching her eye. "Bristol, no, don't eat your boogeys."

"Some gift," Cassandra muttered underneath her breath.

The Doctor was quick to set Bristol on the floor for the sake of wrapping his arm around Clara's waist.

"Don't do it," he whispered lowly.

"I want to pull her hair," Clara growled underneath her breath, her glare on the woman.

"She's not worth it," he soothed.

"It'll _feel_ worth it," she replied darkly.

"Remember that time you punched Tara, thinking it would make you feel better? And then it didn't because you felt guilty?"

She glanced distractedly up at him.

"I only pretended to feel guilty because you cried." She hissed.

He frowned. "No, that's not true! You and Great Aunt Tara get on great now!"

He was in clear denial. Clara and the Doctor's adopted mother never got on and never would. Even when Clara was little she hated her, and nothing had changed now.

"Last Christmas she purposely got me a sweater two sizes too small." Clara reminded the Doctor.

He shot her a reproachful look. "Yes, well, you bought her soap with traces of peanut in it. Her hands were swollen for days."

Clara snorted at the memory but then quickly rearranged her features to look slightly ashamed.

"Fine. _Fine._ I won't pay her any mind." Clara finally caved, shooting Cassandra one last dirty look. The Doctor hugged her tightly.

Once out of their small bubble, Clara began listening to Jack and the iPhone Lady's muffled conversation.

"Apparently the London Eye's just stopped with everyone on board," she filled Jack in.

"Yeah, God help those poor blokes, stuck up in the sky with all that open air around them," he said sarcastically. Clara had to admit he had a point. Their situation was much less idealistic, but they wouldn't be given any rivaling attention as their story wouldn't make the papers.

"I'm bored," Lottie finally declared, and Clara felt her heart sinking. It only took one to say they were bored to get the idea into the other kids' heads, and then they'd be hell on wheels.

"I thought you were reading?" Clara reminded her, turning her gaze to her eldest. She sighed and pushed her brown hair back with one hand, carelessly waving her book with the other.

"I've read this one three times already and it smells like Amy's house when she's making a new perfume in here." She complained.

Clara resisted the urge to point a blaming finger at Cassandra, who had definitely applied too much perfume while getting ready.

"I'm _hungry_," Ellabell spoke up from behind her father's legs. She patted her stomach pathetically. Clara automatically looked to her son, waiting to see what his complaint would be.

"Gotta wee-wee again." He whispered to her from over his father's shoulder.

Clara and the Doctor exchanged fearful looks. If their children decided to start pitching fits, there wasn't much they could do to stop it. Clara caught that look in Ellabell's eyes, the look where she was teetering between staying quiet and throwing a tantrum, and she felt like she was talking a suicidal man off the edge of a building as she quickly mouthed _no_ and took a quick step towards her.

"I'm h-h-huuuuungryyyyy!" Ellabell began wailing, and Clara cursed underneath her breath.

"Mummy said a bad word!" Lottie cried gleefully.

"I'm scared!" Bristol shrieked, and then he succumbed to tears as well.

Clara glanced around at the other adults. Her children's crying was inducing brief glimpses of their own emotions. The iPhone woman looked almost longingly at their displays of emotion, as if wishing she too could just start sobbing on the floor. Cassandra had her ears covered in disgust. The elderly man had long put on headphones that were playing what sounded like an audiobook. Jack was rummaging wildly through his long, dark blue jacket.

Clara turned to Ellabell, about to attempt to pull her up into her arms even though she knew it was impossible, when her line of vision was suddenly blurred by a Snickers bar. She turned her head and glanced at the owner of the hand waving the bar, feeling her heart warm considerably as she put two and two together.

"Is it all right for her to have this? It isn't much and it's mostly sugar, but it'll help. 'You're not you when you're hungry', after all."

Clara took the bar in relief.

"You're a right hero, Jack Harkness." She told him thankfully. She turned and leaned down, handing the bar to Ellabell, who took it with shaky hands. She sniffled, her crying dwindling off slowly.

"I like chocolate." She said softly, giving Jack a watery and hesitant smile.

"I want some chocolate," Lottie muttered underneath her breath, glaring jealously at her sister. Bristol was leaning over the Doctor's shoulder and peering down at Ellabell with his lips parted and a fresh glaze of tears shining on his cheeks. He looked equally reproachful. Clara resisted the urge to slam her head back into the metal wall.

"All right, any new news on when we're getting out of here?" Clara asked the rest of the lift. She wasn't panicking yet, but she was getting irritated. And she'd thought all of them sharing a cab was bad. When she glanced at her husband, she knew he was thinking something similar.

iPhone Lady lifted her phone. "I've called three more times but they said to just "relax"."

"Relax _where_?!" Louis demanded. He completed Clara's mental image of him as a spoiled posh child by stomping his foot. "We are literally shoved into a metal box with almost a dozen other people!"

Lottie spoke up.

"Mister Sir, I read a book about the boxcars they transported people in during the Holocaust and—"

Clara almost topped over in her haste to slap a hand over Lottie's mouth, stilling her words. Lottie looked up at her in surprise, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"_Nooooo_," Clara whispered, drawing out the word as she shook her head. "Not in the lift."

"You let your young child read about the Holocaust?" Cassandra demanded. She had regained _her what-a-terrible-mother_ tone.

"She's six with a reading level three grades higher. She goes to the library every Sunday. By the time we see what book she's reading, she's already read two others." The Doctor responded. Clara noticed that her tone had also made him bristle. "Besides, we encourage her healthy curiosity. She's an intelligent child."

Clara piped up. "Also, it was a historical nonfiction children's book. Wholly age appropriate, not that it's any of your damn business."

Lottie gasped softly beside her. "MUMMY SAID—"

"_YES,_ thank you, Lottie. I said damn. We're all aware." Clara said loudly.

Cassandra sniffed. "It is my business. The lower class is producing too many children per family, which causes our crime and overpopulation problems."

Clara felt the Doctor's hand latch around her arm. She could _feel_ the hatred boiling inside of her.

"Miss, with all due respect, it would probably be best to shut up." Jack Harkness suggested to Cassandra, his eyes glued to Clara's furious expression and the Doctor's dumbfounded one.

"We aren't—we're not…" the Doctor trailed off, as if unsure which part of her statement he should be refuting first. "And even if we were…you can't say that we—"

He stopped and clenched his fists, taking deep, calming breaths. Clara took a deep breath as well, but hers was to fuel her speech, not to suppress it.

"Exactly who do you think you are?" She asked Cassandra evenly.

She flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Cassandra Evans. My husband is a pilot."

Clara lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah? Him and about a thousand others who fly for this airline. My husband's a world renowned surgeon and I'm junior manager of the IT Strategy PMO. As in, among many other things, I'm the one who makes sure autopilot is working so the pilots get a nice nap."

Louis' head shot up. "Hey!"

"Don't 'hey' me. And don't you dare presume to know me or my family. I don't want to hear another word from either of you about my parenting or the number of children I've birthed or any of the sort. Grow up."

"Yeah, you're being very immature," Lottie provided, nodding her head. Cassandra looked angrier than ever, but she didn't say anything, probably recognizing that Clara outranked her husband.

Clara pointed a finger at her daughter. "You, hush."

"Well, I think you're a model mother." Jack supplied. "All of them have clean faces and you're spending time with them. That's a feat in my book."

Clara smiled sincerely at him. "Thank you, Jack. If I ever have to pick a stranger to get stuck in a lift with again, you're definitely my pick."

"I'm finding it harder and harder to be patient," the iPhone Lady said suddenly. She checked her watch again. "Where are they? It's been an hour almost."

"Maybe it's the apocalypse." Lottie shared, her eyes widening with excitement. "Maybe there's been a solar flare that's knocked all the power out all over the world!"

All the adults' eyes fell on the six-year-old.

"She's very imaginative," the Doctor explained. He set his hands on the top of Lottie's head. "It's not the end of the world, Lottie. We just might miss dinner."

"Isn't that the same thing?" She groaned.

"Hold on, little lady!" Jack said cheerfully. He began digging in his coat pockets again, producing a bag of pretzels. "How's this?"

Lottie immediately threw herself forward and latched herself onto Jack, her arms wrapped around his stomach in a hug. Clara made a move to pull her off, but he chuckled cheerfully and patted her back.

"You've got a vending machine in your coat!" Lottie said, touching his dark blue coat affectionately.

Ellabell hurried over to him as well, accidentally shoving into Cassandra.

"Is it a _magic coat_?!" She breathed.

"Is there a toilet in there?!" Bristol asked. All looked down at him at that strange question, but then they all saw he was holding his crotch again.

"How in the world could you have to wee _again_?!" Clara asked in disbelief.

He shrugged his tiny shoulders.

"Life's a wild ride." He said profoundly. "Like The Big One."

"You can't even go on The Big One, stupid, you're too little," Lottie shot at her brother, her mouth full of pretzels.

"Uh huh! Grandpa said he would take me!" Bristol argued, stomping his foot.

"Nuh uh!" Ellabell yelled back. "I can't even go on! Lottie can't either! You're a liar!"

"MUMMY TELL THEM I CAN! I CAN TOO!" Bristol shrieked angrily, his eyes filling with tears. Clara highly doubted her father told her three year old he could go on one of the largest rollercoasters in Europe, but she was eager to calm Bristol before he started bawling.

"Girls, stop picking on your brother. No one is going on that ride. Mummy and Daddy don't even ride it."

_Mostly because Daddy would piss his pants, _Clara thought to herself. She felt her lips curve up into a smile, one that the Doctor automatically saw through. He glared at her in response to the statement she hadn't even said. _My phobia of rollercoasters is a secret!, _his eyes screamed back. She rolled hers in response.

Jack found another chocolate bar for Bristol, and once her children were fed, they quieted down. They wedged themselves between the backs of their parents' legs and the lift walls and dozed on and off. iPhone Lady called for help about every thirty minutes. Clara and Jack spent a while talking about his job in Cardiff (Clara still wasn't entirely sure what he was doing here by the end of their conversation) while the Doctor talked to Rory on the phone. By the end of hour two, Clara was about to pee herself too. Her baby was situation directly over her bladder and no matter how many times she prodded over him, he didn't shift. She grabbed the Doctor's elbow once he got off the phone with Rory and yanked him over to her.

"I've got to go," she hissed at him.

He looked at her in concern. "Like…right now? You can't hold it?"

She huffed. "I've _been_ holding it. For two hours. The baby's on my bladder."

He frowned and scratched his cheek. "Blimey, that's awful. But what do you expect me to do about it?"

She flung her head back, accidentally knocking it into the wall behind her. She winced. The Doctor prodded at her skull as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, doing the typical "potty dance" her children always did.

"I don't know! You're a genius; do your brainy thing and fix the lift!" She pleaded.

He lowered his hands and looked at her skeptically. "And you're the one with all the computing stuff in her head. You fix it."

"I can't!" She moaned. "Trust me. If I could I would have done way before Blondie over there opened her mouth the first time."

"I can block you if you want to piss in the corner." He offered.

"Now that's true love!" Jack spoke up. Clara turned and glared at him, as if he were intruding on a private conversation. She looked back at the Doctor.

"I'm just going to take a nap." She decided. "Can't think about my bladder while I'm unconscious."

He lifted up Ellabell and then helped Clara sit down in the spot she had been in. She leaned back against the wall, tucking her legs underneath her to take up as little space as possible, and then opened her arms for Ellabell. The Doctor placed the half-awake girl beside Clara and in the circle of her open arms, so she was cradled.

"Mummy," she whispered tiredly, giving her mother a smile as she burrowed in closer to her side. Clara leaned her cheek against her daughter's head and did her best to fall asleep.

Sometime later, between the haze of sleep and boredom, Clara heard the Doctor's thin conversation with the elderly man break off as a newly-awoken Lottie spoke up.

"Daddy, how would you know if a button's jammed?" She asked curiously.

The Doctor gave her a distracted answer. "Well, it would be pressed in all the time, honey."

"Oh." She said. There was a brief pause before she spoke again. "So it would stick out less than all the other buttons?"

"Yes, probably."

"Hm." A beat. "How would you get a button unstuck?"

"Oh, I don't know, Lottie. Pry it out with something, I suppose."

Clara could tell the Doctor was growing exhausted. Their children's neverending questions could get quite taxing after a while. It was easy to dismiss their seemingly random and overtly curious questions while tired and stressed, but Clara had realized long ago that there was a certain method to the madness of the way children think, especially her children. It all came from somewhere and it all meant something, even if the adults couldn't make sense of the patterns yet.

"Can I see your screwdriver pen?" Lottie asked the Doctor innocently.

He was immediately suspicious. "Why?"

Clara knew his suspicion was fifty percent fear of Lottie with a sharp object and fifty percent possessiveness over the pen/screwdriver duo he carried with him everywhere.

"I wanna circle the words I don't know in my book." Lottie said, but her voice was too high. Clara knew that meant she was lying. She opened her eyes, taking in her daughter's wide, pleading eyes. Definitely lying.

She was about to speak up when she noticed where her daughter was standing. She'd moved right beside the panel of buttons, where she'd most likely been examining everything curiously.

"Okay." The Doctor said, still a bit suspicious. He dug the pen out of his pocket and handed it over to her. Clara watched as Lottie waited until the Doctor had turned back towards the elderly man—to continue their conversation—and then she hurried over to the buttons. She opened the small plastic door that hid the bright red emergency stop button. And then she used the screwdriver part to pry out the stuck button. She stood back after it was free and bit her lip, tapping her chin with her fingers as she thought. And then she pressed the ground floor button again.

Clara could hardly believe it when she felt the lift lurch. She struggled to rise to her feet, her victorious cry caught in her throat. The Doctor stared at Lottie wide-eyed until noticing Clara's battle, and then he walked over and helped her back to her feet.

"The stop button was stuck!" Lottie announced proudly to everyone.

Clara laughed and pulled her eldest into her arms. Her eyes sought out Cassandra. "What exactly were you saying about my gifts to this earth?"

"Hmph," Cassandra said, but that was all she could say. Because Lottie had noticed what no one else had.

The first thing Clara did when the doors opened was make a beeline for the toilets, convinced in that moment that she'd rather pee than get a promotion. But after explaining their ordeal to the retiring senior manager, she was told her "coolheadedness" was exactly what they needed in their new senior manager. Clara grinned the rest of the night, feeling the glow of success on her person. So when the Doctor told her at the end of the night that she was glowing, she didn't scold him this time.

They put the fatigued kids to bed when they got home, pulling off their shoes and the girls' damp stockings and Bristol's nice trousers. They tucked them in and pressed kisses to each of their heads, retreating to their bedroom tiredly. They collapsed on top of the covers and rolled over to the middle of the bed, meeting each other halfway.

"That child is the best of both of us." The Doctor declared sleepily. Clara curled up in his embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of him that always soothed her. It was her favorite smell in the entire world as he was her home (and had been since she was a child herself).

"Mmm, they all are." Clara agreed.

In the end, Clara decided that her children's inquisitive attitudes were much more of a blessing than a curse.


	2. From the Ashes

_a first kiss, a conversation using smoke and mirrors, and a promise_

* * *

He was eleven the first time he wanted to kiss her.

They were playing Sharks Have Teeth on the curb—their co-invented card game they'd been playing since they were seven—and something about the way the setting sun hit her face made him itch to touch her. It was his turn to place a card, but instead he was staring at her, at her rosy cheeks and her large eyes and, most ardently, her slightly parted lips. He'd never before felt like he did then—like somehow his skin was buzzing with a need for something he didn't yet understand. And he was still young, right on the border between _Girls are Gross _and _Awkward Handholding, _so it was easy to explain to his naïve mind that he'd just eaten too much sugar that day. But he knew himself and he knew his mind, and he knew that he wanted what he wanted, and what he wanted was to kiss her. He imagined for a moment what it might feel like, and whether or not she'd want him to or not, and what he might do if it turned out that she did. She stared right back at him, her delicate eyebrows drawing down in slight confusion as her head turned just barely to the right, her gaze calculating. He knew exactly how much distance was between their lips and he converted it to every unit of measurement he could think of as he tried to work up the nerve to lean forward, but when she abruptly turned her face to look at the street, he knew the distance was far too long.

He was just a boy, anyway. He poked at his dinner halfheartedly that night and tried to read some before bed, but he couldn't forget the curve of her bottom lip. And he was worse for it.

* * *

It took him three years to work up the courage to do it, but when he finally did, he found he'd waited a little too long.

They were in his room, watching some mildly disturbing show on Animal Planet, and all he could think about was the fact that she was prettier and prettier each day that he saw her.

He knew she was aware that he adored her. Everyone knew he did. Tara had been colder and colder towards her for it and his older brother teased him relentlessly, but he didn't care, because why should he be ashamed for loving her? It seemed silly to him for anyone to be ashamed of the things they liked or loved. Frankly, in his mind, anyone who didn't love her should be ashamed. He'd been her friend for a very long time so he knew all her faults. He was well aware of the fact that she could be vain and standoffish at times, as well as quite violent under certain circumstances and generally bossy. He knew what her hair looked like when she went two days without washing it and precisely what she looked like underneath the modest layer of makeup she wore every day. And he fancied her all the more for it.

So when she turned towards him to ask him some comfortable question or another, he reached up, his hands cradling her face gently. The gesture felt new and strange and thrilling and wonderful all at once—and she stared, her eyes wide and her cheeks pinking just slightly underneath his tender gaze.

"What?" She asked him a little self-consciously, her voice softer than normal. He'd never seen her like that before. Through her unease came a quiet beauty that even his fourteen-year-old self could appreciate.

"You're beautiful, Clara." He told her. It was the first time he'd ever said the words even though he'd thought them for a very long time. Her eyebrows rose sharply in surprise at that. She seemed to lean further into his hands, maybe not even noticing herself that she had.

"Oh." She said.

He grinned and grinned because he thought she was brilliant. She reached up timidly and set her hands over his, her thumbs rubbing gently against the backs of his hands. The contact made his stomach jolt.

"So kiss me." She said boldly, her softness edging away.

He felt his heart jump at those three little words, like they were the biggest thing he'd ever heard.

"K-Kiss you?" He stammered, shying away slightly as if he hadn't spent practically every day of the past three years thinking of doing just that.

Her thumbs kept stroking his hands, and even though his palms were growing sweaty, he didn't drop them from her face. He felt to do that would shatter something between them.

"Yeah." She replied simply. "I want to kiss you, but I haven't kissed anyone before, and I don't want to get it wrong. So maybe you can do it first, and I'll pay very close attention, so next time I can do it right."

The casual delivery of her words befuddled him more than anything else, because she said all of this like it was no big deal at all, when just the knowledge that she even wanted to kiss him was making his heart pound erratically. And then she spoke as if they would keep kissing, that she'd kiss him sometime in the future, maybe when he was not even expecting it…and it was all enough to make him faint, honestly.

"But I haven't kissed anyone either." He finally blurted out.

She looked surprised at that. "Oh. I thought…at camp, you spent so much time with Rose…"

"She's Ten's age!"

"Yeah, but—"

"She likes him, not me!"

"Oh." She smiled. "Okay then."

He smiled back, a little nervously. "Yeah."

He knew that his hold on her face was becoming awkward and prolonged, and that she was probably feeling that too, but he didn't want to move away because if he did that he might never lean forward again. It had taken him three years to get to that point, after all.

"Well, if you do it wrong, it's not like I'll even know." She said matter-of-factly. Those words made his stomach flutter strangely and he realized he was still beaming like a dopey idiot.

"I guess that's true." He agreed. His heart was beating way too rapidly. He was definitely having an arrhythmia.

She looked around a little awkwardly. "So…" she pressed, leaning further into his touch. It took him a moment to realize she was waiting for him to press his lips to hers.

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, um, just..." Her eyes fluttered shut easily. He could see on every line of her how much she trusted him in that moment, and it was heart warming. He licked his lips and took a shuddering breath. "Yeah, that's…yeah." He encouraged her, even though he had no idea what the hell he was doing any more than she did. He drew forth every mental image of on-screen kisses he'd seen, trying to figure out how to turn his head—but then he realized how stupid he was being. This was Clara. It wasn't about doing it right. It was just about…well, it was about the fact that he wanted to kiss her. It was simple like she'd said all along. And so he tightened his hold on her face gently and pulled her closer, leaning forward and turning his head slightly to the right, and then he pressed his lips to hers. He didn't think to close his eyes until he'd pulled back, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he thought he might be sick.

"Hmm." Clara said, her lips so close to his they practically brushed again. "Maybe once more, like you want to, not like I'm holding a gun to your head."

His nervous laughter escaped from him, drawing out similar giggles in Clara. It was then, with her eyes lighting up with humor, that he found what he'd been looking for inside of himself. And then he kissed her again, this time slowly and deliberately, taking the time to notice all he hadn't before: the taste of her chapstick, the smell of her shampoo, the lovesick feeling of having her that close to him. He kissed her like that a couple more times, sweet and slow and completely to the point, and he was about to pull back and tell her how much he actually _liked_ it—until he heard his door open.

"Doctor!"

Clara's eyes drifted shut once more, but this time with chagrin.

"Oh bollocks." She whispered softly.

The Doctor dropped his now-sweaty hands from Clara's face, sliding back from her like he'd been doing something to be ashamed of, even though he hadn't felt like he was. He was sure Ten had been doing far more with girls by this age. His Great Aunt Tara was peering at him with a frown, her eyes flitting between him and Clara.

"Clara, your mum called. She wants you home." Tara said.

The Doctor wasn't sure if that was true or a lie, but either way, Clara rose from his bed. She touched his shoulder gently, squaring her small shoulders against Tara's reproachful glare at her back.

"I'll see you tomorrow." She told him.

Despite the adult present, he grinned like the lovesick adolescent he was.

"Tomorrow." He agreed.

Tara watched Clara leave the room, her lips pressed into a line. The Doctor expected some sort of chiding from her, even though he wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, but she didn't say anything. She merely sighed.

"It really doesn't seem that long ago that you were my little thief." She told him. "Now you're stealing things much more serious than books or biscuits, and that girl's got a thieving heart to rival yours."

She turned and walked from the room, yelling something to his brother about picking up his books from the stairs. The Doctor thought all night about her words. It was true he was a thief when he was little, right before he was orphaned. Every time they'd come over to their Aunt Tara's he and his brother would nick things, mostly things they couldn't get at home like books or sweets, but he hadn't stolen anything in a long time. At least not anything tangible.

It all seemed too well-timed to be a coincidence to him, but the next morning, Tara handed him his acceptance letter from the prestigious boarding school he'd been forced to apply to months before. _Dear John Smith XI, We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to our year-long program, beginning this fall…_

He didn't want it. He didn't want any of it. He didn't want the starched uniforms they had to wear, the heavy curriculum, or the posh company. More than anything, he didn't want to move to Cardiff, away from everyone he cared about. From Tara, from Clara, from his brother Ten. He didn't want to live somewhere where everyone would call him John no matter what he said. He didn't want it, but that didn't matter, because he was still a child.

"I always take you where you need to go," Tara reminded him softly, her blue eyes wide and sincere. "This is best for you."

He disagreed. "You aren't making Ten go. You aren't making him go somewhere where everyone will call him _John Smith X_ and make him wear rubbish uniforms. You aren't making him leave all his friends."

He hated his father and he hated his name and he hated that place.

Tara's motivations soon became clear with her next words. "You aren't leaving friends, Doctor. You're leaving Clara. Ten's got Donna, Rose, Martha, and Mickey…you just see that one girl. It's been like that since you moved in with me, all those years ago. It isn't healthy. You need to figure out who you are as just you. You need to grow."

For the first time since she'd opened her doors and her heart to him, he resented her.

"You're just afraid I'll be like him." He told Tara coldly. She didn't have to ask who he was talking about. It was clear to both of them.

* * *

In the end, he was a coward. He was too afraid to tell Clara goodbye, so he didn't. A year was too vast for him to comprehend at that age. It seemed an impossible distance that they could never cross.

He cried on the train. He knew Tara loved him more than anyone else in the world, and that she only did things because she wanted the best for him, but at the time it felt like a personal attack. Like a punishment for being the eleventh John Smith instead of the tenth. He couldn't be his brother. He wouldn't be. And he would never, ever grow up. Not like she wanted him to.

He learned more than he ever could have expected and made lasting friendships with Amelia Pond and Rory Williams, but his heart was never far from London. It was never far from that girl because it had already intertwined with her heart, and he feared on some damp, chilling nights that it never would be untangled from hers, and that he'd be miserable forever because of it. Teenage heartbreak was always tinged with an unnecessary sense of fatality.

He wrote a letter to her, six months in. It was brief and cheery and empty, talking of lab experiments and strange insects and the weather. At the end, he added a P.S. in the shorthand they created together as children that didn't make much sense now. He told her he missed her mother's soufflés, but what he really meant was that he missed her.

He never got a letter back, whether from fault of the school's post system or perhaps Clara's own indifference towards him he wasn't sure. In time, he came to the realization that he'd lost her. It was a jarring moment for him, because until that realization, he hadn't thought losing her was possible. She'd just always been there and he'd selfishly assumed she always would be. The Doctor and Clara until suddenly it wasn't. It was just the Doctor.

Amy and Rory kept him uplifted, and when it came time to return home and say goodbye to them, he found that he almost didn't want to.

It was strange to be that age, anyway. Everything was forever and temporary all at once.

* * *

Tara and Ten greeted him at the station, smiles stretched across faces that seemed different somehow. Tara's eyes were perhaps a bit linier and Ten's face was longer, thinner—like he'd aged considerably in his brother's absence.

Tara hugged him warmly and Ten clapped his shoulder, taking his bags from him. The Doctor spent the entire ride back telling the all about Amy and Rory and River and Craig and Sophie and how much fun they'd all gotten into. Tara was so happy it made the Doctor happy too. Deep down, all he wanted was to make her proud.

Things were different when they arrived home. Tara's smile faded into a concerned and determined stare while Ten looked almost gloomily out the window. The Doctor suddenly knew instinctively that something had happened while he was away. His stomach grew heavy and his heart grew tired.

"What?" He asked Tara. When she didn't respond, he turned to his brother. "What's happened?"

Sitting in the parked car, Ten met his brother's eyes.

"Clara's mum died. Ellie died."

He'd never before felt like he was moving while sitting stationary, but he felt it now. He got the brief impression that he was spinning and his heart felt like it was being pulled, hard, by two greedy hands ripping the muscle apart.

"No." He said, and it was so childish and stupid that he immediately corrected himself. "I mean. How? Why? When?"

He'd just seen Ellie the day before he left. He was sitting in the family room with her and Clara, watching some baking show and laughing about something or another, he couldn't remember now…but it had been just yesterday. She'd been fine. She wasn't—how could someone be months away from dying and not even show it? But then he remembered his own parents and realized that was a foolish thought.

"Leukemia. She died two weeks after being diagnosed. There was nothing to be done." Tara told him.

The Doctor looked to Tara. "But she seemed fine!"

"I know, Thief." Tara said softly. The Doctor realized once more how grave of a situation it was when she used his old pet name.

"When?" He demanded again.

"About six months after you left."

He couldn't look at them. So many things were wrong. He'd written to both of them weekly and no one had once mentioned this. And he'd told Clara he missed her mother's soufflés, probably right after she had died. It's no wonder she hadn't written him back. He felt nauseated.

"And Clara?" He asked them, his eyes still far from them and his voice shaking slightly.

"She's fine." His brother assured him. "Actually, every time I see her, she looks perfectly normal. She didn't even cry at the funeral."

His hand was pulling on the handle before he even decided to flee the car. He suddenly couldn't stand to be in there with them.

"That is not _fine_." He spat at his brother, and then he slammed the door behind him and retreated to the garage.

Being in there was not comforting, because they'd destroyed it. This was where he and Clara spent most every day after school during the cold months. They had their own little card table with two chairs and an old rug and a CD player. All of it was gone, leaving a bare, empty spot in its place. He sat down on the concrete floor, feeling the coldness of it seep through his trousers. And then he pressed his face into his hands.

"Christ," he whispered.

He ignored Tara when she asked him where he was going later that day. He knocked on Clara's front door for at least three minutes before her father opened it, dim eyed and beaten down.

"Is Clara home?" He asked impatiently.

Dave shook his head. He offered no other information, shutting the door quickly like the human contact was painful for him. The Doctor didn't know what to do or say, because the Oswalds had been the picture-perfect family. Everyone loved each other unconditionally and there was never a shortage of warmth in their household. He used to go over there whenever he felt hopeless simply because the love made him feel like things were okay. He felt like he'd just lost a bit of his own childhood, as selfish as he knew it was. Clara had been extremely close with her mother her entire life. Where was she? More importantly, where had he been while she was suffering?

He wasn't sure where he'd been, but he did know where he'd be. He'd be right on that stoop until Clara got home.

The sun went and the moon arrived and still no Clara. The Doctor called her phone, but she'd changed her number sometime during his absence. Tara called for him to come inside, but he didn't listen. He didn't know why he felt so angry. He just knew that he did, and that maybe it was aimed at the world, but he'd punish Tara for it anyway. Because she was the one who loved him unconditionally, and teenagers were always going to use that to their advantage.

He saw the dim pinpoints of light before he heard her. First he smelled the smoke, then he saw her bring the cigarette up to those same lips he'd thought about for so many years, and then he watched her exhale the smoke into a girl's mouth that she'd hated only a year prior. The sight made his heart curl with pain, that smoke wrapping around and around it until it was blackened and smoked.

The other girl had already begun her walk home when Clara got near enough to spot the Doctor sitting in the dark. Still in his uniform. Still angry.

He had no right. He knew he didn't, but he rose to his feet and pulled the lit cigarette from her slim fingers anyway. In the dark light she was small and tough, with long smudges of eyeliner underneath her eyes and lips too red to have been painted with any lipstick she owned. It was a heavy mask too old for her. He could still see her clean face behind his eyelids each time he blinked.

He didn't know what he was doing when he pinched the end of the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb, burning the skin as he extinguished the flame. That earned him the slightest flash of emotion in Clara's eyes, but it was gone quickly.

He'd imagined often what his first words to her might be. He never expected what they actually were.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He dropped it to the ground, stamping it with his shoe for good measure. Then he rubbed his stinging fingers together and seethed.

"You're the one on _my_ stoop. What are _you_ doing?" She shot back, her anger just as quick.

"Don't you even try that on _me_, Clara. Don't you try your tough girl act. It might have worked on everyone else who knows you, but I'm not an idiot." He snapped.

He didn't know why he was yelling at her. Her mother had died and he was scolding her after abandoning her for a year. He'd thought he wanted to pull her into his arms. He'd imagined what he'd say when he met her. He thought he'd hold her and she'd cry on his shoulder and they'd talk about her mother and maybe she'd tell him that she hadn't been happy at all with him gone, and then she'd kiss him, and he'd kiss her back, and everything would be fixed. But that wasn't life, was it? Life wasn't straightforward like that. Life wasn't a movie.

Her nose twitched and her chin trembled. But after a moment it was gone, so quick that the Doctor could have imagined it.

"Piss off." She told him.

She made to walk past him, but he stepped to his left, blocking her path. When she tried to walk around him, he merely moved in front of her again. It was a game they played as children. But he didn't see any children around anymore.

She reeked of liquor and stale cigarette smoke. They were barely sixteen, and more importantly, they were the Doctor and Clara. They always said they wouldn't be this. They wanted to grow up and save the Pandas and invent ways to make secondary sources of energy more accessible. They wanted to make the world a better place, not let the world make them sadder people. The Doctor had seen that happen to his own parents and Clara'd always said…she'd always said they were different. They were survivors.

"This isn't you, Clara." He pleaded with her. "I know you. I _know you._ This is wrong. It's just wrong."

She stopped trying to slide past him, her eyebrows rising in the challenging way that normally made him a little frightened.

"You're one to talk." She said, her voice slow and measured.

He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Her fingers were a light pressure on his shoulder. She touched his uniform, still crisp and sophisticated despite the travel he'd done today.

"This. Your bloody accent. The stationary you sent that sodding letter on!" Her voice grew louder with each addition.

His first instinct in his anger was to argue with her, but all at once, he knew she was right.

"You're right." He told her, and that earned him a look of mild surprise. He began working the tie from his neck, his hands shaking slightly. "None of this is me, that place wasn't me, and it never will be. I didn't want to go. Tara made me, and I didn't want to, Clara. I didn't want to." He flung the tie on the ground, staring at the monogramed logo that landed face up right beside Clara's burnt out cigarette. So those were the two paths they'd ended up on. He just knew that any path away from each other was the wrong one. He was tormented. "Why are you hanging out with Nina Horton? Why are you…being so…not-Clara?"

She looked from him. "What, did you expect that you'd leave and I'd just sit and wait until you returned? That my life would be paused like a bloody movie?"

He didn't speak, because he realized with a rush of shame that yes, he had kind of expected that. Had kind of hoped for it. She saw that in his eyes.

"Well that's rubbish. I don't wait for anyone. I come and find them, but when I couldn't find you, I had to find something else."

His voice was sad. "I don't like this." He told her. "I don't like you doing things like this."

"What? Doing things without you?" She accused.

He held her gaze. "No. Doing things to hurt yourself."

She didn't say anything. Perhaps it had never occurred to her that that's what she was doing. He saw her posture droop slightly, like she had just grown exhausted.

"I was lonely. You weren't here." She admitted. "It felt good to do things I wouldn't normally do. It felt like I wasn't myself anymore. And I didn't want to be me."

He noticed that she was using the past tense, which made him sincerely hope that that meant she wasn't going to do this anymore.

"Tara sent me away because she said we were too dependent on each other. Maybe she was right." He muttered.

Her anger flared. "The world's shit and Tara's a cow. Why does it have to be unhealthy to be dependent on someone? Who decided that we all had to do it alone? Who woke up one morning and said 'hey, the world's a hard and dark place…let's insist that everyone handle it alone to be considered healthy!'. I don't buy it. I don't buy it! I don't understand anything about the world and I don't understand why things happen like they do. I lie awake all night and think about it but there's no sense to it. Someone could spend their entire life being good to other people, and taking care of them, and loving them with all their heart, and then suddenly be dead and it doesn't make sense. And meanwhile there are all these people out here, these bad, terrible people, who hurt other people just for fun, and they're fine, they live to be in their nineties, and no one questions it. My dad's wrong. There is no God, and even if there was, I wouldn't speak to Him. Look, all I know is that, when we were together, things were better. What's wrong with relying on someone? What's wrong with counting on them, with needing them, with missing them? What's wrong with…with…"

She stopped abruptly. The Doctor listened to her words and understood her dual meaning. He understood it all, probably more than she wanted him to. And so he didn't say the words that she expected (_"Because if you rely on someone that much, when they leave you—and they always will somehow—you won't be able to do it on your own. You'll end up doing crazy things to feel okay again."_). He merely reached for her hand, pleasantly surprised when she didn't yank it away.

"There's nothing wrong with it." He said instead, because he meant those words deeply. "People who think there is are only scared because they've been hurt." He let himself say the words he couldn't write. "I missed you, Clara. You're my best friend."

Her small smile was gorgeous in the pale moonlight.

"I know." She told him softly. She swung their joined hands a little, like they used to do as kids, and he wanted to grab her and kiss her until she understood just how much he meant what he said. He'd missed her every day. She let their arms fall still and then looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "My mum died."

She said the words like she was admitting some huge fault of her own, like he'd run away the minute she admitted it. He swallowed dryly, the words making his heart ache again. He gave her hand a hesitant squeeze.

"Ten told me today." He admitted. He used his other hand to pat his pockets, feeling the battered pack of cards he'd put in there before heading over here. When he thought he'd find the same Clara he'd left behind. He was starting to, anyway. "My mum's dead too. Do you want to play a game of Sharks Have Teeth?"

It hadn't been what she was expecting, that much was for certain. She stared at him almost with indignation for a moment, her features drawing down with anger and hurt, but then all at one she began laughing. The first laugh was shaky and uncertain, but soon it was hearty and real, and so very Clara. She laughed and laughed and laughed—until the Doctor realized suddenly that she was crying.

He still smelled like that boarding school, all crisp and overbearing, and she still smelled of smoky defeat, but he gathered her into his arms and swore he caught a whiff of the smell of home.

"She always said that loving someone meant you went and found them every time, but you both went away, and I couldn't find you." She admitted to him, her voice high and drawn tight. He'd never seen her cry before. He wished he never had and never would again. Her body shook against his as she cried. "I couldn't find anyone, and it was so cold this winter, and my dad kept telling me to find God, but my mum wasn't with Him and I wasn't with you and I can't make a soufflé without her. They burn every time."

He was bony and nerdy and socially awkward with a chin too long for anyone's face, but he was also her best friend. He knew that. And so he did what best friends did. He helped her carry her pain. He scooped up half of it and placed it into his own heart and he cried too.

"If ever you can't find me, it doesn't matter, because I'll come find you." He promised her. It was a rash promise made from his sixteen-year-old mouth in the middle of an emotionally-wrought conversation, but he meant it. He meant it with all of him and knew he'd always honor that, even if one day she decided she didn't want to be found ever again.

"I don't even know who I am." She admitted to him.

It was important to him that she understood this.

"You're beautiful." He responded immediately. "In every way a person can be. And you can lean on me, because I won't let you down."

"Not like she did?" She asked him. He understood her blind anger at the world, at her mother, at him, at herself. He accepted it like he accepted every part of her.

"Not like that." He swore. "At least, not anytime soon." He leaned back from her slightly, meeting her eyes as he nudged the cigarette with his toe. "But you have to promise not to let me down, too."

She huffed, her tear-stained cheeks shining in the dim light from the moon.

"That's my first one." She admitted. "The smoke reminds me of my burnt soufflés. I won't be doing it again."

He chuckled softly at that. He reached down and pulled a piece of hair off her wet cheek, replacing it behind her ear. When his fingertips brushed her cheek, he found his heart picking up pace. He couldn't imagine a day when it wouldn't do that around her.

"Would it be all right if I kissed you? I noticed you leaning more towards the Nina side of life, but—"

She cut him off with a soft kiss, her cheeks damp against his. Her fingers buried into his hair, her other hand finding the pack of cards held loosely in the hand still at his side. She wrapped her small hand around that one as best she could.

"You're my more than anything." She told him when she pulled back. It was a common refrain between them. It'd started when they were kids and they heard a mushy couple saying _"I love you more than anything"_. They'd sneered and joked with each other all day, mocking the lovey-dovey tone and fluttering their eyelashes at each other. _"I love you more than aaaanythinggggg!" "You ARE my more than anything, sugarplum!" _They'd end up on the grass in fits of laughter, their ribs sore from giggling so much. But somehow along the way they'd become that couple, and the Doctor wasn't sure when it had happened.

He smiled, his lips twitching against the long-time instinct to laugh at those words. "I know."

She pulled the pack of cards from his hand.

"I'm going first, and if I see you cheat, I'm going to punch you."

"You're the boss."

She glanced up at him with a surprised smile, her expression lighter than it'd been since he saw her again. He reached up and used the pads of his thumbs to wipe away some of the dark makeup underneath her eyes.

"Clara, you look like you've been channeling fashion inspiration from a raccoon." He admitted.

"Better than from a rich snob." She shot back, looking him over.

"Is it?" He asked skeptically, drawing a reluctant laugh from her lips.

They sat down in the dewy grass. She was quiet as he dealt their cards.

"I missed you too." She told him finally.

He looked up. He ran his fingernail nervously along the edge of the queen of hearts.

"I'm so sorry about your mum." He replied.

She nodded, glancing down at her hands. She fiddled with her mother's wedding band, that he now noticed was on the middle finger of her right hand.

"I'm not ever going to have kids." She whispered sometime later, her voice thick with pain. "I won't ever make someone need me that much."

The Doctor thought briefly to his own parents, but the thoughts were bitter and stinging.

"Me neither." He told her. He held her cards out to her. "No peeking."

She took the cards from him and cradled them in her hands carefully. She glanced up at him, not surprised to find him already looking at her.

"Probably for the best. Dear God, _that chin. _Can you picture it on a newborn?"

He glared at her until the corners of her lips twitched, and then they were laughing again, their cards falling from their hands as they rolled in the grass.

Clara stared up at the sky, her cards surrounding her head almost like a pre-arranged halo. The Doctor took the moment to memorize her cards, in case they resumed their game.

"I haven't laughed in a long time."

The Doctor poked her ribs, knowing it was her most ticklish place. She squirmed away and smacked at his hand.

"I'll fix that in no time." He assured her.

She sighed. "I know you will." Then she sat up and punched him hard in the arm. "And I told you not to cheat, don't think I didn't see you looking at my cards. New ones." She held out her hand and waited as he shuffled and dealt out new ones, pouting just a little bit.

"Will your dad move you back out to Blackpool?" The Doctor asked her midway through the game. He was kicking her ass but he wasn't about to go easy on her. Clara Oswald hated pity more than losing.

Clara shrugged. "I think he'll probably end up going back. I'm not going with him, though."

That knowledge made him warm. He couldn't stop smiling, even when Clara told him it was rude to grin smugly while winning at a card game.

"I'm not smiling because I'm winning. I'm smiling because you're not leaving." He told her.

She smiled too. "I like the sound of that. _Not leaving_. Let's say it again."

He knocked his shoulder into hers and opened his arms to the heavens as he sang out—in his best interpretation of opera singing—_NOT LEAVING! NOT LEAVING! _He knew he'd get scolded by Tara for it in the morning.

Clara licked the back of the king of spades, sticking it to his forehead. She grimaced when he stuck the king of hearts onto hers, accepting her fate.

"I win!" He cheered.

Suddenly, her gaze was more devoted than it had ever been. She looked at him like she loved him—fully, completely. He hadn't been loved like that very much in his life. He was so far into that gaze that it took him longer than it should have to realize what just happened. He gaped at her, his own loving gaze shifting to one of outrage.

"Did you…did you _let me win_?!" He demanded. "That's so against our rules! You know it's against the rules! You're the one who wrote it in!"

She reached up and pried the king of hearts off her forehead, relicking it and removing the card on his head to stick that one in its place. Then she pressed her hands against her knees and rose.

"That card's yours." She said simply. He watched her kick off her heeled boots and walk into her house without another word.

It took him until morning to realize what she'd meant.


	3. Two by Two

**A/n: **Thank you to all those who have favorited/alerted the story and/or took the time to leave your thoughts! It's greatly appreciated.

* * *

_two operations, one backwards R, and a predilection for even numbers_

* * *

On the day Clara took her first sick day of the year, she felt the familiar rush she'd gotten as a student whenever she skipped classes.

She smiled like she had a secret the entire morning, sighing happily each time she glanced at a clock. _It's 9:34 on a Monday morning, _she'd think to herself, _at this time I'd normally be arguing with that idiot from Delta. It's 10:05. If I were at work, I'd be hacking into the hackers' computers and unhacking what they've hacked. _Instead of doing those things, she was curled up on the couch with her son, sipping tea and watching some vaguely educational (but mostly just stupid) toddler show. And instead of counting the hours in angry phone calls, she counted them in full-bodied laughs from her son. Her red dress suit was still hanging pressed in her closet, her stiff black flats still on the shoe bench in the foyer, and she was perfectly content to be in her pajamas with a pair of thick socks on. So what if she'd had to get her appendix removed Friday night? It was a fair price to pay to be here with Bristol, in her opinion.

"This is so much better than daycare, don't you think?" She asked her son. He looked back at her, his face bright with delight.

"I wish you got your appendisk taken out every day!" He cried happily.

Clara laughed, pulling him closer to her in a tight hug. She kissed the top of his head. "So do I, Bristol. Who needs an appendisk anyway."

"Yeah! Who needs it!" He agreed, slapping his hands down on the leather sofa with finality.

Clara lifted the bottom of her shirt—a borrowed one of her husband's that he'd won at a Jammie Dodger eating competition ten years prior—and eyed the staples of the first incision.

"Still, I wish your daddy could have done it. This is kind of shoddy work, to be honest. Laparoscopic appendicectomies are supposed to be tidier." She murmured, mostly to herself. Bristol nodded his head back like he understood every word.

"He cuts up brains." Bristol informed her, as if she didn't know. The wording was perhaps a bit more brutal than Clara would have liked, but it was true nonetheless.

"That's right." Clara told him, lowering her shirt back down. "Lots of brains."

He turned his head back again, his brown eyes wide and knowing. "Like a zombie."

Clara snorted, alternating between happiness and pain as she laughed. Perhaps picking up Bristol had been a bad idea. He had gotten his father's sense of humor, no doubt about it, and laughing wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing in her current state.

Between episodes, he turned back around, this time crawling up into Clara's lap. She winced when his little hand pressed down over the second small set of staples, the tender pain of it drawing tears to her eyes. His hands found her face and he gripped her cheeks seriously, his eyes dancing with a secret.

"I have a surprise!" He sang happily. Clara forgot about her discomfort as his hands moved to cover her eyes. "But you can't look until I say so!"

"Okay." She agreed, carefully pushing him just a bit so he wasn't directly on top of her abdomen. He crawled off her lap and grabbed her hand, waiting until she'd obediently shut her eyes.

"Come on!" He said.

Clara followed him through the house, her eyes screwed shut. She knew they were in the kitchen when the texture underneath her socked feet changed. She listened to the slight humming of the fridge as Bristol grabbed what sounded like his bag he brought to daycare. He rummaged through it and then hurried over to her, his new shoes squeaking against the tile.

"Can I look now?" Clara asked him.

"Yeah!" He said.

She opened her eyes, finding her face only about two inches away from a sheet of tan construction paper. She took it gently and moved it back enough that she could make out what he'd drawn or written, and then she felt prideful love rising up inside of her.

"Oh, Bristol," she told him softly, staring at the shaky penning of his own name. The R was backwards and the B looked like someone had helped him write it, but it was perfect. "It's beautiful. You're such a smart boy."

He was smiling like he'd never heard anything better, rocking on the balls of his feet almost shyly like his father did. Clara leaned over and lifted him up, even though the nurses had told her not to. She felt the skin around her staples pulling but she didn't care. She kissed Bristol's face a dozen times as he giggled. She leaned back and stared at his face, at his dark eyes and thick eyelashes and the dimple that played hide-and-seek depending on his mood. "Can I have it?" She asked him.

"It's for you, see!" He flipped the paper around—almost giving Clara a papercut in her eye in the process—and showed her where one of the adults had written _to: Mummy from: Bristol_.

She was warm with perfect happiness, the kind that only her children and her husband could bring her. She walked him over to the fridge and helped him stick it right on front, covering up her work schedule. They stared at it together, held on the surface by the hand-drawn badger magnet Lottie had made in kindergarten, and Clara kissed his chubby cheek.

"Thank you. It's just what I needed." She told him.

But later, after she laid him down for a nap, she found herself staring at it with a new emotion taking root inside of her. She was so proud of him and loved him so much, but she was also scared of how fast time was going by. He had only just turned three two months ago, but she was suddenly realizing just how fast time was sprinting, and how quickly they would all soon be grown. She wasn't sure if she was ready for that, if she could handle seeing all their toys sold in yard sales and all their baby clothes stowed away in boxes. It'd taken her so long to get to the point she was at when they decided to try for Lottie, but now she couldn't understand a time when she hadn't wanted this. This life and this family was all she wanted now, it was all she tried for and all she lived for, and it seemed to her that the world hadn't been a real, complete place until they were here. Or maybe just that she hadn't been. All of her insecure fear and anger from her adolescent days had passed on, quietly smothered by the far-reaching love and friendship she received every day from the Doctor. She didn't wish it a return trip. One morning, about fifteen years ago, they decided to live as if their love was enough to change the world. Everything had been clear and bright since then. Life was hard but love was easy, and the shadows couldn't reach too far into their hearts. There was too much light.

The Doctor came home unannounced for lunch, much to Clara's delight. She was still in the kitchen when she heard the door opening and the familiar rhythm of his footsteps. She let out an elated cry of his name and ran through the kitchen on her socked feet, sliding comically along like she was still a child, eventually crashing right into his open arms.

"You came home for lunch!" She said happily into his scrubs. They smelled like hospital disinfectant with just a hint of blood, but she didn't care. She wound her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his chest. His hand stroked her hair and he reached down, lifting her chin up gently so he could kiss her. She liked the feeling of the curve of his smile against hers.

"Of course I did. You're cut up like Frankenstein." He replied, as if the idea of him being anywhere else was absurd. She laughed happily and leaned up to kiss him again, even though rising onto her tiptoes made her skin pull around her staples. She ran her hands up his arms and under his shirt, her joy unable to be contained.

"Careful, I'm pretty sure I've still got some frontal lobe on me somewhere. I couldn't find it but I can _smell it," _he glanced down at his arms suspiciously, his eyes narrowed, like the brain matter was a sneaky sentient being that was hiding from him and trying to hitch a ride on his person.

She took a slight step back, her nose wrinkling a bit. "You didn't shower after leaving surgery? Aren't you supposed to?"

He reached into his pocket and retrieved an imaginary key, lifting it up to his lips and locking them firmly. He tossed the key behind him.

"Shower time takes away from Clara time." He told her. He glanced around them then, his eyes picking up on Bristol's school bag. "Where's Bristol? Didn't you pick him up?"

She nodded. "He's napping. Come, look what he made today!"

She stepped back from the Doctor and took his hands—that may or may not still have traces of some poor bloke's brain juice on them—and pulled him over to the fridge. She stood beside him and looked up at his face as he examined Bristol's name. He beamed proudly, his eyes softening to that loving, paternal look that he wore so naturally. He'd taken to fatherhood like it was what he was always meant to do. Clara felt that it was.

"What a brilliant little guy," he gushed, "that's just brilliant. Look at the O! Have you ever seen a more perfect O in your life?"

Clara smiled when he intertwined their fingers, swinging their arms back and forth.

"No, I haven't." She agreed. "He's definitely got circles down."

They stared at it for a moment longer, side by side. The Doctor dropped her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist instead, pulling her to his side.

"How are you feeling today?" He asked her, shifting from proud parent to concerned spouse in only a millisecond. Clara glanced up at him and touched the circles underneath his eyes.

"Fine. Beats being at work, anyway." She said. She studied his eyes, trying to read past his King of Okayness to see how his surgery went. He sometimes wasn't okay when he couldn't save them. He talked about it sometimes, and sometimes not. It was always touch and go. "Were you in surgery for the whole six hours?"

He turned them, his hands on her forearms, and nodded tiredly.

"He shot himself in the forehead. Policeman, used a handgun. I thought that maybe, if we could remove the bullet, there would be a chance. Rory didn't think so, always the pessimist."

He stopped speaking abruptly, and she thought that would be all he'd say. She figured the man hadn't lived and he didn't want to talk about it, but then he slowly smiled, as if with bittersweet victory.

"But this—" he pointed to a small, unsettlingly pink spot on his shoulder. Clara felt her stomach churn with disgust. "This is the brain matter or blood or…something, anyway…of a man who is very much alive! No telling for certain what he'll be like when he comes to, but he is alive."

Clara had long understood that one of the biggest tragedies of his job was that there were very rarely clean successes. People were saved, but often still had long recoveries ahead of them and a future that was to be very different from anything they'd had before. She felt privately that it was too cold of a job for her husband, who she'd always thought would make a brilliant pediatrician. He'd sure be happier doing that, anyway. But they both knew he had a gift and somewhere down the line he'd recognized the responsibility of that.

She gazed at him softly, her lips pulling up into a small smile. "My hero," she said teasingly. He grinned and rolled his eyes, pulling her in for a brief kiss. She pulled back, suddenly catching a whiff of what he'd deemed as frontal lobe. She grimaced. "My hero who needs a shower."

He beamed, a certain mischievous glint in his eye. "With you?"

She gave his hand a tug, pulling them towards their bedroom. "Well of course! I've probably got it all over me now, too."

He clapped his hands together, like one of his grand schemes had just worked out the way he wanted. "Yes, probably."

They tossed their clothes into the hamper, giving each other's throws a score from 1-10 just for the hell of it. When Clara deemed the Doctor's best throw a five, he grabbed onto her and lifted her clear off the floor, flinging her gently onto the bed with a cry of indignation. She laughed and grimaced through her laughter, staring up at his faux-injured expression. He grabbed her bare foot, tickling the arch until she was practically crying.

"Fine, fine!" She shrieked, slamming her fists down on the mattress, "It was a…six and a half!"

He carefully set her foot back down on the mattress, like it was a breakable thing, and then beamed. "I'll take it!"

She took extra care when running her soapy hands over his skin in the shower, thinking quietly about the rash decision that had been baking silently in her mind the entire afternoon. She kissed him as she lathered his hair with shampoo, suddenly only thinking about his wet skin against hers and how much she loved him and always had and all the gentle choices that had led her to this very moment. It was a mutually understood fact between them: life would dirty them up and at the end of the day they would wash each other clean. It was the only thing to rely on and the only thing they needed.

He washed her hair even though she'd already washed it that morning, seemingly dedicated to extending the sparse time they had together for as far as it would stretch. She let him examine her wounds carefully once they were both clean and soap free, his fingers gentle as he touched the slightly-puckered skin around the stitches. He looked up at her a little crossly.

"You've been lifting Bristol, haven't you?" He accused her, his voice almost drowned out by the roaring sound of the water. "You're not supposed to lift more than ten pounds for four-to-six weeks."

She should have known he'd know. She glanced down at the incision he was prodding at. "It didn't rip." She said defensively.

"Could have," he argued.

"And I _could have_ gotten sepsis." She reasoned. She tapped his nose. "Didn't though."

He frowned, her words triggering something that she should have expected. He straightened and pulled her naked body close to his, practically clinging to her like he was a few seconds away from burying himself into her.

"That's true." He murmured into her hair, his voice less light than before. She reached her arms around him and held on tight, thankful that he had come home for lunch, that she'd gotten to see him before late tonight when they'd both be exhausted beyond belief. Their hugs had a tendency to last a while, and this was no exception.

"_Could _have," she reminded him. They were always aware of the could haves, but they tried to not give them much weight. She wanted him to remember that what could have happened was nothing compared to what actually did. Only a bad dream. It didn't mean much.

* * *

She was thinking of life and death and all that stuff in between as she dried off and redressed. She stepped into the bathroom to towel-dry her soaking wet hair, and when she stepped back into the bedroom, she beamed to see the Doctor lying on top of the covers, his own pajamas on.

"You're not going back?" She asked him gleefully.

He grinned back. "I've got nothing else scheduled. I'm still on call, though. Let's pray that no one enters the emergency room with massive head trauma today."

Clara clasped her hands and looked up at the ceiling dramatically. "Oh please Carl Sagan, don't let anyone fall off a motorbike today and turn their brains into custard!"

The Doctor laughed at her, leaning up so he was propped up on his elbows. "You're slightly crass." He told her affectionately. Then he sat up all the way and opened his arms. "Come here, you're too far for my liking."

"And for mine as well." She agreed, complying with his request. She crawled up to the top of the bed, falling easily into his lap and curling into his embrace.

"Bristol's going to be so thrilled when he wakes up and sees you here." She smiled.

The Doctor kissed her in response, pulling her away with him into a quiet ten minutes where all they did was hold each other and share kisses like conversations. When Clara felt pain twisting in her gut—her body's way of rebelling against her own earlier rebellion—she pulled back and rested in his arms instead. He told her all about a story Rory had told him this morning while they were scrubbing up, punctuating each couple of words with laughter, but suddenly all Clara could think about was the desire that had come to life that morning in the kitchen, staring at Bristol's paper. It was rash and mad, unexpected and ridiculous, but so was their life together. It always had been.

He looked down at her in concern when she didn't laugh at the punchline of Rory's joke, his hands ghosting over her abdomen.

"Do you need me to get your pain medicine?" He asked her.

She looked up at him. She could feel the odd look on her face, but she didn't try to clear it away, because she couldn't mask anything around him. She'd given up on trying that when she was only sixteen.

"Doctor…" she began slowly, the word falling from her lips like the beginning to a long-winded proposition. He studied her face in confusion for a moment before suddenly widening his eyes with realization.

"Oh no," He told her. "I know that look. I remember that look vividly. That's the same look you gave me over three years ago at that conference in Bristol."

She sat up in his lap, her hands settling on his shoulders.

"Three is such an unlucky number. You know how I feel about odd numbers."

"Clara!" He threw his hands up into the air, equal parts flustered and frustrated. "Do you not remember Bristol's birth? Because I do! If I recall correctly, you grabbed my collar and said—very fiercely I might add—that we were _D-O-N-E done _with having kids, and that I shouldn't even _try_ to convince you otherwise, because you were _not_—and here you repeated that word at least three times—going to push another baby out of your vagina."

She only vaguely remembered that. Most of her labor with Bristol was a blur of pain and her desperation to keep the Doctor at her side, lest he went to visit the loo and ended up in Scotland by accident right as the baby was born. "Yeah, okay, but—"

He shook his head, still gaping at her. "You were serious! I even asked you—I said: '_Are you sure Clara, because you said that after Ellabell…'_—and then you hit me! You were punching-serious! You hit my shoulder so hard it was sore for days and Bristol was _heavy_!"

Oh yeah, that _had_ happened. She remembered it now in flashes of irritation and agony. She peered back at the Doctor's bemused expression. "I was overwrought! I had been in labor for twelve hours!"

He nodded. "Exactly! You were in labor for twelve hours!" He rotated his arm, clutching his shoulder like he still had phantom pains there. "It was a _really_ hard punch."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh you poor baby, let me go get you some ice for that punch you received over three years ago."

He gaped at her for a moment, his expression slowly cracking as a small, amused smile flitted onto his face. He chuckled, his smile widening when Clara laughed a little in return. He turned his head slightly to the side as he stared intently at her, his smile fading to a serious purse of his lips. "Are you…serious? Like…actually serious? You're not just speaking hypothetically? You actually want to have another baby?"

She began to feel her confidence cringing. She was beginning to worry that, despite the sometimes wistful looks she saw him give newborns in shops, he didn't actually want another one. "Yeah," she said honestly (and slightly defensively), averting her eyes in a meager effort to protect herself from whatever his next reaction might be. "I mean, only if you do too, of course. I figured it was worth bringing up and this is probably the longest amount of time we'll have to dedicate to this conversation, until the other neurosurgeon gets back from Bora Bora or wherever the hell he ran off to."

"I—Christ, Clara, what _I _want is kind of irrelevant—of course I would love another child, you know how much I adore being a father, but I'm not the one who has to carry it and give birth to it." He said. He peered at her with concern and maybe a bit of reluctance, like he was afraid of getting his hopes up only to have them dashed. "Don't you think you should think about this for a bit, just to make sure it's what you really want? You know how attached to the idea I can get and I need to know you're certain before I start daydreaming about baby socks. Because you know once I start daydreaming about baby socks there's no turning back for my heart. Remember that scare with Ellabell?"

She touched his face, running her fingertips over the slight stubble on his chin. She knew the question was hypothetical, as neither of them would ever forget that, but it still made her feel a brief flash of pain. He'd been inconsolable when they thought they'd lost her. His suffering had made Clara's multiply. It was not a time she liked to remember. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I'm telling you that I _want _to carry and give birth to another one. Once you endure childbirth three times it kind of loses its terror." He still had heaviness in his eyes, the kind she never liked to see. She wanted his green eyes to always be bright and joyful. She smiled and made an effort to lighten the conversation. "Besides, maybe the hospital can give us some sort of have-three-get-a-free-fruit-basket-for-the-fourth kind of deal."

He chuckled, his guarded look softening to one of love. "A _fruit basket_? You'd endure labor a fourth time for a _fruit basket_?"

She shrugged. "Love a good pineapple."

He sighed and took her hand in his, gently tracing the lines on her palm. He thought for a moment, his lips turned up in an almost content smile. "You're mad." He told her. "And very possibly a masochist."

She half-bowed. "Thank you."

He grinned. "But we are kind of good at this parenting thing, aren't we?"

She rolled her eyes. "Now don't say that, as soon as you say something like that we'll end up accidentally leaving one at the grocery store."

He winced and glanced up at the sky. "Scratch that from the record, Carl."

She set her hands on his face, sweeping her thumbs over his cheekbones. "But yes, we are. And I just keep thinking…more love isn't ever a bad thing, is it? I used to think you could keep pain from happening by just keeping everything safe. But then we had Lottie, and that was arguably the most dangerous and maddest thing we've ever done together…and I never knew it could be like that. That we could take our love and create something so…good." She shrugged. "I guess the world just needs a little more goodness, and I can't think of anything better than our children."

He kissed her softly, his love and yearning reminding Clara of how beautiful the world really was despite it all. He was always reminding her of that. She'd seen terrible things and felt such ringing pain, but no matter how far she slipped down his hand always caught hers. He always pulled her back up and reminded her that she was Clara and they were each other's.

"I couldn't agree more." He told her with a smile. After a moment, that easy happiness turned into a knowing look. "But admit it, Clara. You just couldn't stand the idea of them growing so fast. You do know that eventually every future baby will be writing their name? We can't just keep having babies each time one grows a little bit." He reminded her gently.

She grinned, her eyes twinkling because she'd already realized that and found the perfect solution. "I know that. But by the time the fourth's at that point, I'll be way too tired to have another and probably my eggs will be all dried up, so that won't even be a problem. Plus, five is a rubbish number."

He grinned. "Ah, solving attachment issues with avoidance…I love it. Very reminiscent to teenage you."

She narrowed her eyes. "Watch it, mister."

He nodded with false seriousness. "I am always watching it. Cross my heart." He kissed the tip of her nose, his smile returning. "So when do you think we should begin trying?"

She shrugged. "Now's as good a time as any."

"Well don't overwhelm me with romance, Clara." He said sarcastically. "I mean, I'm a simple man myself; I like to be wooed as much as the next bloke. Chocolates, roses, sweet love letters and proclamations of love…" he smiled dreamily and peered off into the distance, and Clara had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing hysterically. Instead she did what she did best: she played along.

She sighed dramatically, falling back into his arms in a feigned faint. If it was wooing he wanted it was wooing he'd get. "My heart races with desire for you, darling, and if I don't have you this moment I feel I will cease to exist in this realm! Without you I am simply a fragment of myself—a mere ghost, nothing! There has never been a time or moment free from you, my love, you are in everything I am! Complete me, fill me, take me in your arms_, show me why life is worth living_…!—"

He reached up and began fanning himself, which was apparently his hilarious interpretation of an adequately wooed housewife. "Oh _Clara,_" he cried passionately, yanking her into his arms and pressing his mouth hotly to hers, but their kiss didn't last long because they were both laughing hysterically into each other's mouths.

Clara feared she'd ripped the skin around her staples from the force of her laughter, but even as she tried to sit up and pull down the waistband of her pants to check it she was laughing. She flopped over onto her side, giving up, and decided it would be worth it if they had. Once her laughter dwindled down, she pushed the Doctor from his side onto his back, perching easily on his lap with her hands on his shoulders. She leaned down and kissed him deeply, all her acted words somehow feeling real as she did. When she pulled up, he looked mildly surprised.

"Oh, really? Now?" He asked her, his face blooming with a smile. "I thought this was early foreplay for tonight! What a great day to be alive!"

She grinned cheekily at him. "As I said before, now's as good as ever."

He laughed happily and reached up, setting his hands on her hips, but then he floundered. He gestured vaguely at her abdomen in concern. "Oh yeah, you've got staples. You're all…stapley."

She rolled her eyes, pulling him in for another kiss. Honestly, he worried too much for his own good.

"And you've got a big chin but I wasn't going to mention it."

He was wearing his cocky grin when she glanced back at his expression. "You love my chin. Admit it. All that heckling is just because it gives you funny feelings."

She lifted an eyebrow. "'Funny feelings'? What are we, twelve?"

He was about to reply with some sassy quirk or another when they heard the doorknob to their bedroom turn. Clara was frozen with confusion for a moment. It'd only been an hour and Bristol almost always slept for at least two. But he was standing there all right, sleepy-eyed and confused. The Doctor lifted Clara's shirt up slightly.

"Yeah, looks good, looks good. Your boo-boo is fine," he said loudly, acting as if he hadn't even noticed the visitor in the doorway. He made a show of glancing up and then doing a double-take, his eyes widening.

"Bristol!" He cried happily. "Look who's awake, Clara! It's Bristol!"

Bristol's sleepy haze was broken by the sight of his father. He grinned broadly, his stuffed elephant falling to the floor as he began jumping up and down happily.

"Daddy! Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" He shrieked. He ran full-speed to the bed, climbing up with some difficulty to wrap his arms around his father's neck. Clara slid off the Doctor and sat beside him, readjusting her shirt and combing her fingers through her hair.

"I saw your name on the fridge, buddy. I'm so proud of you," the Doctor muttered into Bristol's hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Clara crossed her arms, her heart warming as she watched them. She'd had magnificent parents growing up, but the Doctor hadn't by any definition, and so sometimes she was still surprised by how wonderful of a father he really was. She didn't know what example he'd learned from, but he was never anything less than perfect.

"I did it all by myself!" Bristol said proudly. "Me and Ms. Barton!"

Clara caught the Doctor's eye, looking away before she laughed. She realized then that she'd forgotten to tell him about Bristol's zombie comment earlier. Luckily for her, they had the rest of the day (assuming everyone in the vicinity kept their brains cared for).

"That's great!" The Doctor told him sincerely.

Bristol ruffled his father's hair and giggled when the Doctor ruffled his right back.

"Are you staying all day, Daddy?" He asked excitedly.

"I sure hope so! I'll be here unless someone gets hurt or sick and needs my help."

Bristol nodded seriously. "Brain stuff."

Clara saw the Doctor's stomach muscles contract as he tried to suppress his laughter. He nodded back gravely. "Brain stuff." He affirmed.

"Mummy said she wished you took out her appendisk." Bristol informed his father. "The other guy was lousy."

Clara met the Doctor's gaze, his eyes twinkling like he'd just found out about some endearing vulnerability she'd hidden from him.

"Oh really now? Well, Mummy needn't worry. I'm going to take care of her," he said, his eyes still on Clara's. He had the nerve to give her a suggestive wink. She kicked his leg lightly in response, but she thought about his words for a while after, because she realized despite his teasing that it was true and always had been. He had always taken care of her, and she him. And together they took care of their children and nothing made more sense than that.

Life was hard but love was easy, and that was all she knew.


	4. Reckless Resolutions

_cartography lessons, an unwanted taste of growing up, and new rules_

* * *

Dave Oswald's rules were firm. The Doctor was allowed inside his home between the hours of ten in the morning and midnight and not an hour before or past. Ordinarily, the Doctor respected that, recognizing that the hours were quite reasonable after all. There had only been a handful of instances where he'd broken this rule—once when Dave was out of town, once when Clara was upset and didn't want him to leave, and once when he was upset and couldn't leave. Usually these situations called for him staying past curfew, not arriving before. On this certain day, however, he was breaking it in a new way.

He slipped his shoes on at half past six, already dressed as he hadn't even bothered putting on his pajamas the night before. He held his breath as he slipped from his bedroom and walked down the stairs, artfully hopping over creaky spots, listening intently for the sound of Tara's bedroom door opening. He paused in front of the front door, his hand resting on the doorknob, and he took a deep breath. As he exhaled, he quickly unlocked the door, pulling it open as slowly as possible. The long moan of the hinges seemed so much louder at this early hour. The Doctor stepped out and shut the door after him quietly, immediately sprinting towards Clara's house with his breath still caught in his chest.

She was already on the stoop, looking perfectly put together and calm. Her hair was washed and brushed, her dress ironed and neat. She even had makeup on. Typical.

"I bet you even had breakfast, didn't you?" The Doctor greeted her.

She smiled up at him, reaching beside her for the mug the Doctor always used at her house. She passed it to him.

"Two eggs on a piece of toast." She affirmed. She took a sip of her tea, glancing up at him with a knowing look. "I bet you've just hopped out of bed, haven't you?"

He took a sip of his gratefully. The warmth of the mug between his hands helped calm his racing heart.

"Sprinted, more like it. I didn't sleep a bloody wink." He admitted.

She stood up and walked close to him, her lips still pulled up in a smile. For a moment he just looked at her and inhaled the familiar scent of her perfume, his unease dissipating. She rose up onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

"I didn't either, if it makes you feel any better." She admitted, once she was back on her feet.

"You sure don't look it." He grumbled. "How did you make breakfast without Dave hearing you?"

"Very carefully." She told him.

She looped her arm with his, giving him a gentle tug towards the street. But the street lead towards what the Doctor was now convinced was his doom, so he stayed put. She gave him an exasperated look.

"We have to go. Come on, I thought the reason we were going early together was so we could support each other." She said. "Well, that and so Tara couldn't shit all over the results."

He was quick to defend his adoptive mother. "She doesn't _shit all over things_. She just…" he paused, searching for a way to explain Tara. "Adds brutal input."

Clara rolled her eyes, giving his arm another stubborn tug.

"I don't want her brutal input." She said plainly. After two more tugs, she sighed and looked at him in disbelief. "I don't know why you're worried, Doctor. You're going to get As in everything. You know you are."

He gnawed nervously on his bottom lip, averting his gaze. He knew he was going to get all As. That wasn't the problem. The problem was what happened after they both got great scores and they met their offers and then…and then, well, they wouldn't be together anymore.

He was sick to his stomach. He crossed his arms and dug his heels into the ground, halting any progress Clara might have been making as she tried to pull him across the pavement.

"Nope. Can't do it. Don't want to do it." He declared.

Clara looked at him in exasperation. "It's not like we get the results and immediately you're transported to Cambridge. Let's just…take it step by step. Baby steps. Let's get the results and then we can go from there. Okay?"

She walked back over to him and rubbed his arms soothingly, peering up into his eyes with a peacefulness in hers that the Doctor couldn't understand. Why wasn't she freaking out, too?

She kissed him gently and gave his rigid body a tight hug, laughing when he reluctantly pulled her close and lifted her from the ground, his mug of tea spilling slightly. He spun her in a half circle, feeling himself relax despite his panicked mind. All he knew was that he loved her, and that was both the problem and the solution.

"Fine," he caved in, once he'd set her back on the ground and caught a glimpse of her pleading expression. "Let's go get the envelopes."

They held hands the entire walk to college. The Doctor noticed that, despite her insistence that she was fine, Clara grew quieter and quieter the closer they got to the gates. They played a couple rounds of Sharks Have Teeth as they waited for 7:30 to arrive, but they both weren't that into it. When the queue began filing in, Clara's grip on the Doctor's hand was suddenly tight and panicky.

"Let's leg it." She hissed in his ear, when they were only two people from the table. The Doctor watched the people standing off to the side, opening their envelopes with shaking hands, and he didn't envy them. But they'd made it this far.

"Who's scared now?" He teased her, knowing the taunt would set her resolve quicker than any encouragement. He was right. He saw her square her shoulders from his peripheral vision.

"I'm not _scared_," she argued hotly. "I'm…nervous."

He was nervous too. After receiving their respective score envelopes, they did indeed leg it. All the way back to Clara's house. It wasn't near ten yet, but she grabbed his collar and yanked him through her front door, practically dragging him all the way up to her bedroom.

The Doctor collapsed on top of her bed and watched her pace around, scratching nervously at her palm. She'd thrown the envelope on her desk.

"What if I didn't make the scores I needed?" She asked him. And then her eyes widened, like she'd thought of something even worse. "Oh, God, what if I did?"

He could only watch her pace nervously for so long. After a moment, he began sliding his thumb underneath the flap of his envelope. Clara fell down beside him quickly, sitting practically on his lap. She grabbed his hands. Hers were warm and small.

"I'm scared." She admitted. She said it like she was surprised that she was, like she couldn't even believe it herself. He stared into her eyes, which were lighter than usual thanks to the green dress she had on, and admitted to her something he _could _believe.

"I'm terrified." He said.

She crossed the room quickly and retrieved hers. He felt better when she sat back beside him, but all he could think about was next year, when she wouldn't be near him at all.

"Together?" She asked.

He looked at her and smiled. "Together." He affirmed.

He opened his swiftly and waited until Clara had reached the same point. They shared one last weary look before turning to their results and opening them. The Doctor's heart had been pounding all morning, but as he scanned his eyes down the rows, he found he saw nothing he didn't already expect. Except for one.

"I got a B. In Geography." He said flatly. Those words registered in his mind slowly, clicking with a bit of disbelief. "I got a _B_ in_ Geography_!"

He lowered the paper angrily and looked at Clara, who was still staring intently at hers.

"How the hell did I get a B in Geography?!" He raged.

Clara lifted her eyes from her A-level results and wordlessly handed them to the Doctor. She stared down at the carpet while he glanced over hers. It was pretty much what he had expected for her. A in ICT, A in Computing, B in Business Studies, B in—

"You got a B in Geography too!" He yelled. He rose to his feet so he was standing on her bed. He pointed down at the paper like it was personally accountable for what was written there. "In _Geography!_ That was our fun subject!"

He hadn't noticed she'd picked up his—it'd fallen to the floor as he jumped up in blind rage—until she began reading it aloud.

"A in Biology, A in Chemistry, A in Psychology, A in Physics…and a B in Geography." She finished. And then, abruptly, she was laughing so hard he caught a snort somewhere in the mix. He stared down at her incredulously. He plopped back down onto his bottom, causing Clara to bounce up a bit, and that only made her laugh harder.

"This isn't funny! This is the opposite of funny! We took Geography so we could be together, and for an easy A—_how did we get Bs_?!"

Her laughter dwindled slowly, giving way to a look of amused affection. "Doctor, you got four As." She reminded him. "And actually, a B in Geography is pretty good for us. Especially considering how many classes we spent in the faculty bathroom. You can't honestly be surprised that we didn't get As."

He knew she was right, but he was still a little bitter. It was true that when they were supposed to be studying maps of Asia he was studying her body, but he'd always felt that was a much better region to be acquainted with. He didn't plan on ever going to Asia anyway.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, his results still resting in her lap. "You did really well, Doctor." He could hear how proud she was of him, but he could also sense the melancholic undertones.

He turned his face and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his arm wrapping tightly around her shoulders automatically. He stared at hers as well, still clutched in his right hand.

"And what about you? As in Computing and ICT _and_ a B in Business Studies. You were so worried about that one, remember? You told me you thought you'd be lucky to get a C."

She laughed, but it sounded weaker this time. "I'm thinking that one might be some rare printing error. I hardly understood any of that exam."

He shrugged. "I think that's the point of business. No one really knows what they're doing. They just kind of close their eyes and guess." He lifted his arm slightly and began pulling his fingers through her hair. "You needed two As and a B for King's, right?"

She was quiet for a moment. Her hand moved to his thigh. She traced the faint outline of his pants underneath his trousers, her movements idle and thoughtful.

"Yeah." She finally said. "And you obviously met your Cambridge offer."

His throat was suddenly thick. He swallowed against the narrowing, his eyes suddenly burning. "I guess so."

They sat like that for another minute or two. The Doctor kissed her head a couple more times, his heart swelling more and more each time he did until he felt like his love for her was almost choking him. Almost killing him.

"It's only a little over an hour away from you." He tried to say, but his words were shaking like he was close to tears. He was about to admit what he'd done when he noticed her posture change from the corner of his eye. She went from relaxed and content to rigid and nervous.

Clara lifted her hand from his thigh and began fiddling with her hands again. When she took a deep and slightly shaky breath, he knew she was about to admit something.

"I thought that it would be okay, you know?" She said. "I thought…hey, it'll be hard, but we can still see each other on the weekends. But it's not okay, I don't think. I feel physically sick when I think about being away from you. And, Doctor, I would follow you to Cambridge if only I had the scores to. Maybe if I had paid more attention in Business Studies…or spent less time shagging you during school hours and more time memorizing the elevation of the Himalayas." Her mouth twisted with regret.

He was still with fear then, because he thought she was going to cry. He didn't want that, he couldn't take that. He rubbed her arm and kissed her head again, and then he blurted out the words he'd been too embarrassed to say before.

"I have the scores for King's. I…might have, hypothetically…applied without telling you. And they might have made me a conditional offer of AAA, which I know now that I meet, and I figured I would meet, but I didn't tell anyone because the only people I would tell would be you or Tara but I didn't want you to think I was clingy and I didn't want Tara to know that I hate Cambridge because she wants me there so badly and I—I really think I might go."

Clara met his eyes. She blinked as his words sank in. He read her expressions as they flittered across her face: first, intense, blinding hope. Then slow and sad realization.

"Why am I not surprised?" She finally murmured, more to herself than anything. She had to take a deep breath to force her next words out, and when she said them, she almost winced like it hurt. "I don't want you going to King's, though. You…you've always said you were going to Cambridge. You worked so hard. You should go where you want."

But hadn't she figured it out yet?

"Clara, I want to go wherever you are." He told her honestly. "I would follow you to the moon. Besides, Cambridge is just another one of Tara's rubbish infatuations."

Clara shifted closer and he couldn't stop himself from pulling her into his lap. He held her close to his chest for a second, his heart swelling in that overwhelming way once more, and then he listened to the words she mumbled into his neck.

"Let's go." She said.

He smiled into her hair. "To where? King's or the moon?"

"The moon." She clarified. She leaned back and peered up at him, her expression suddenly fully vulnerable. "I don't think I'm ready." She admitted. Those words were the hardest to say it seemed, because once they were free, the rest came tumbling out in a panic. "Everyone keeps telling me about how gifted I am and how great I'm going to be and I just…don't want it. Sometimes when I'm writing computer coding I think about the path everyone's set for me—university schooling in Computer Science, some high-paying job where I sit in a leather computer chair in the dark and stare at a screen all day, next to no social life—and I just want to scream. And then I think about you and how you're going to be this…this…otherworldly surgeon, who saves so many people, and you'll probably find some posh Cambridge girl who, you know, understands the purposes of the solar plexus and then you'll have dozens of long-chinned babies and I'll name my software developments after you."

She looked at him miserably after her speech, like she was completely convinced that was what lied ahead for her. The Doctor peered at her in soft amusement.

"For someone so smart, you can be quite daft." He told her gently.

She crossed her arms uneasily, leaning back from him. His hands automatically pressed to her back to keep her from toppling backwards off his lap.

"It's what's going to happen." She stubbornly insisted. "I can _feel_ it. I don't even feel like I'm done growing into who I'm supposed to be yet. How can I make a decision about what I want to spend the rest of my life doing? The only thing I'm certain that I want for the rest of my life is you. But that's not exactly a job, is it?"

That one question—_How can I make a decision about what I want to spend the rest of my life doing? —_ was the summary of all the Doctor's anxieties for the past few months. He too only knew that he wanted Clara, and he thought that same thing every day. He'd never really made a decision himself to go into medicine. It was just the direction he'd been pushed in. And while he knew he was intelligent and would be great at it, he just wasn't sure yet if he was willing to dedicate so much of himself to it. He understood Clara because they were in similar situations: they were gifted at something but unsure whether or not they loved it too. And love was important. It was the most important thing of all.

It was that realization that pushed the next words from his lips.

"Let's defer our offers."

She didn't look convinced. "Defer them? What do you mean?"

He took her hands in his and brought them up to his lips, pressing a kiss to each. "I mean…let's take a gap year. Together. Let's travel, let's explore, let's…be happy. And then, let's go to King's together."

She bit her lip as she thought about what he'd said.

"Tara would be so mad." She murmured.

He shrugged. "Honestly, I don't care. I really don't. I just want to be with you. And everyone says that's unhealthy, especially Tara, but it's just the way it is. And it works for me. It works for us."

He watched her mull it over. She ran her thumb along the bottom curve of her lip, her brow wrinkled as she thought. There seemed to be a million logical reasons running through her mind to say no, but in the end it didn't matter. She threw her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him, her elation hugging his melancholy heart. Hope was at home there once again.

"Yes." She told him. She kissed his neck at least a dozen times, and the feeling of her smile against his skin made him purely happy like nothing else could. "Yes, I want that. I want that more than anything."

And she was what he wanted more than anything. He found her lips and kissed her deeply, pouring all his sudden excitement for their future into the kiss. He slid them closer to the wall and then turned, pressing her down into the mattress and running his hands down the body he still couldn't get enough of and probably never would. If he were a cartographer, she was his planet, and that was all he knew. If he were a cartographer, his fingertips were his pens, and he had never drawn more careful lines.

It wasn't ten, but he was in Dave's house, and he was pulling Dave's daughter from her clothes, but he suddenly didn't even care if he caught them. Clara had a way of making him feel like the cruelest repercussions in the world were worth even the slight chance to touch her, but she never made him hurt. She was tender and soft as she undid his belt, her normal fire quelled to a gentle simmer. It was new and comfortable and lovely to kiss her so slowly, so lazily, to bask in the pleasure of touching and being touched without racing for fear of being walked in on. She was impossibly quiet as she pressed her fingernails into his shoulder blades, her mouth on his and off his and then on it again, a thousand words spanning between their mouths but none of them being said. And nothing was said, not before and not during and not directly after, because it didn't need to be. They were suddenly content and sure that the future was safe, because it was theirs. They knew they weren't being pulled apart.

She touched his chin gently with her fingertips, after lying quietly by his side for a couple minutes.

"You really are, you know." She told him lightly. He lifted his eyebrows in askance. She smiled, her dimple peeking out at him. "The king of my heart."

She had no idea that he thought of her as more than the queen of his heart. She didn't know that he thought of her as bigger than life itself, as his own world within the world they lived in, as hope incarnate. But to him it was the only thing she ever could have been. She'd been the first friend he made after his parents shot themselves, right on Christmas Eve. She'd walked over to Aunt Tara's on Christmas morning, the day he'd moved in with his brother, a slightly deflated soufflé in her small, oven-mitted hands. They had no presents waiting for them. They had expected no gifts. They had expected that they'd never be happy again. But then there was Clara, in her red dress with her cheeky smile. Tara had known he was a goner that very day, because he'd eaten that entire soufflé in one sitting, eager to run over to her house to return it to her. It was a hopeless cause since day one.

* * *

Tara was not amused when he arrived home later that afternoon.

He was walking up the stairs, his wet hair dripping down onto the carpet and his A-level results in his hand, when Tara appeared at the top of the staircase, her mouth pressed into a firm line.

"Dave just called me." She informed him.

The Doctor wasn't sure whether to grimace or laugh.

"Really?" He asked lightly. He tried to step past her, but she set a hand on her hip and glared at him in a way that immediately halted his efforts.

"Really. Said he found you in his shower." The Doctor braced himself as Tara's teeth gritted. "_With his daughter._"

"He just saw us both in her room in towels. Can't prove anything." The Doctor said stubbornly. Tara huffed and pointed at his wet hair.

"Maybe we were playing in the hose." He said defensively. When she glared, he sighed. "Yeah, Dave didn't really buy that one either." He touched his left cheekbone, wincing in pain. "I might have a concussion, I'm not sure."

She crossed her arms angrily. "Well, if you do, it's your own damn fault." She held out her hand then, staring pointedly at his results. "I see you've gone to get them without me _and_ you opened them. I don't know why I expected anything else. Let me see."

He reluctantly handed them over, feeling like this moment on these stairs was perhaps a brief glimpse at hell itself. She looked at them for maybe five seconds and then handed them back.

"I told you not to take Geography." She said immediately, to which the Doctor let out a groan. "You only took it for that girl and you should have taken Critical Thinking. But you did very well and I'm proud of you."

She offered him a slightly begrudged smile. The child inside of the Doctor grabbed at it greedily with both hands.

"You should call Cambridge sooner rather than later." She advised, stepping aside to let him up to his room. But he didn't move.

"Tara, I…"

Her blue eyes were suddenly too hard to look into. He had to glance away.

"I know how much you love Cambridge, and I know you want me to go there, especially since Ten picked Oxford instead…but—"

"Don't you dare say you're following that girl to Birmingham. Don't you dare." Tara threatened lowly.

The Doctor took a small step back, automatically cringing away from her next reaction.

"She's actually going to King's." He muttered. "And they've got a great—"

"No." She told him.

He stopped. Tara had never told him no like that before.

"What?" He asked uneasily.

She was angry. He could see that by the way her body was shaking.

"I said no. You cannot follow that girl to King's. You cannot follow her anywhere else. She's dragging you around by the collar, Doctor, and you don't even notice it. You follow her around like a lovesick puppy. But I won't let you do it any longer. You can do so much better. It's time to let her go to King's where she belongs and let yourself go to Cambridge, where you belong."

He looked at her like he had never really seen her before. Her words were stinging.

"Clara loves me." He told her firmly, unsure how she could still doubt that.

"If she loved you, why isn't she offering to follow you instead of asking you to follow her? Why are you the one who has to change your plans?"

He gaped at her, his anger momentarily strangling him.

"She's not—Tara, she isn't asking me to follow her anywhere! I'm the one who applied; I'm the one who made the decision! And she can't follow me to Cambridge because—well, she doesn't have the marks to."

Tara's gaze was cruelly pointed. "Exactly, Doctor. She didn't have the marks. That should tell you something."

He was nothing if not protective. Her words made him clench his jaw.

"Don't you dare imply that about Clara." He warned her. "She's just as smart as I am and you know it. And it infuriates you."

Tara gestured towards his scores. "The evidence doesn't show that."

He had to take a deep breath to keep from saying something to her he knew he'd regret. After inhaling and exhaling slowly a few times, he opened his eyes and made a decision.

"I love her and we're taking a gap year together and then we're going to King's. It's my life and that's my decision." He pushed past her and walked to his room, ignoring her yells behind him. He slammed his door and locked it. They were supposed to leave this weekend, but he couldn't stand it any longer. He couldn't be here anymore. He was hardly aware of what he packed. He threw clothes and various items into a suitcase and his backpack, his hands still shaky with anger.

She trailed after him when he walked past her, bags in hand.

"Doctor! You are making a huge mistake!" She screamed.

He stopped in front of the door and turned. When his eyes fell on her, he hesitated for a moment, because she looked genuinely concerned for his life.

"How?" He asked. "How is doing something different from what you want a big mistake?"

She reached forward to grab his suitcase, but he pulled it sharply from her grasp. He held them behind his back, his eyes narrowed. She glared right back at him.

"You're going to run off with this girl, get her pregnant, and then you'll end up unemployed and homeless and you'll never go to school. You'll never make anything out of yourself." She said coldly.

The Doctor shook his head and laughed humorlessly. "You're wrong." He told her. He stared at her more intently. "And while we're confronting each other about this, how about you tell me what your problem with Clara is, because I've never understood it. She was never cross with you until you started treating her so badly."

Tara crossed her arms uneasily, her face paling by the moment.

"You want to know what my problem with Clara is?" She asked him. He resisted the urge to reply _of course, that's why I asked_, and waited for her spiel instead. She tucked her shaking hands underneath her armpits and stared at him gravely. "My problem with Clara is that you treat her exactly how your bloody father treated your mother. I look at you with her and I see them—I see every mistake he every made and I see their—their mangled corpses. She runs you around just like your mother ran your father around. And they started out in love and happy, until suddenly they weren't anymore, and your mother was shagging everyone she could get her hands on, and your father was depressed, and then he lost his job and the whole family was brought down and your mother got depressed and then—ever the romantics—they shot themselves in front of their children on Christmas Eve." She lowered her hands and made a grab for his suitcase again, letting out a frustrated cry when he moved it once more. "THAT'S what my problem with her is. I see her and I see destruction. Yours and hers too."

The Doctor was sick. He couldn't look at her any longer, but he forced himself too.

"That's your problem, Tara. You see the past and the present and the future as one tangled thing, when it's not like that at all. This is the present and I am not my father. Clara is not my mother. And I'm going to prove you wrong about her."

He slammed the door so hard behind him that he heard the pictures rattling on the wall. He was blinded by tears as he ran to Clara's door. He couldn't remember that Christmas Eve with any certain clarity, but sometimes it was almost like painful flashes. He could hear the sharp cracks and see his brother's shocked and pale face and the puddle of deep red blood (Almost black, it had been almost black. That he remembered.) staining the tree skirt, but then nothing. Nothing at all until he was with Tara.

Dave's obvious instinct upon opening the door was to slam it back in the Doctor's face, but he softened immediately when he saw the Doctor's expression. He'd always been a big softie, anyway. He opened the door and called Clara down, drawing the same man through the doorway that he'd just literally shoved out thirty minutes prior.

Clara didn't ask a word of him. She pulled his body to her small one, wrapping her arms around him.

"It's okay." She told him, she promised him.

Tara hadn't ever mentioned his parents' suicides to him. No one ever had. He'd never even told Clara what had happened. She knew from her mother, who knew from Tara. No one talked to him about it because no one wanted to be responsible for triggering the boy's memories. Tara must have been very desperate to have done it.

"She says I'll end up shooting myself in the mouth like my dad if I don't go to Cambridge," he bluntly summarized.

Dave almost tripped over himself in his haste to reach the linen closet.

"I'll make up the couch." He muttered. He must have seen the Doctor's suitcases and assumed that was his way of asking to stay at the Oswalds. It made him strangely happy to know that her father wouldn't even question it. He'd just make up the couch, knowing it would hurt Clara to send the Doctor away in his time of need. It was around this moment that he decided Dave Oswald was close to what every father should strive to be.

Clara and the Doctor sat on the couch, cocooned underneath two of the many blankets Dave had nervously tucked into the cushions, and Clara held his hand tightly.

"We'll leave tomorrow. Where do you want to go first?" She asked him. And just like that he remembered what Tara had made him forget. The future is separate and unknown, full of limitless potential. He is not doomed for tragedy. They are not doomed for tragedy.

He leaned his head against her shoulder this time. Her hand was soft as she stroked his face.

"Anywhere." He admitted. He shut his eyes and focused on the softness of her hand against his skin and the way just that small gesture made him feel so much love he wanted to cry. And then he lifted his head and peered at her. "Clara, let's get married."

Just like that. No ring, no months of nervous preparation. Suddenly he knew what was right and what wasn't.

He heard something smash in the kitchen and Dave's cry of outrage. But he was only focused on Clara, who was staring at him tenderly. If she was surprised to hear that proposal, she didn't show it.

"We're only eighteen." She reminded him, but it sounded like she was mocking someone else's objections. Her heart wasn't in it.

He shrugged. "I made up my mind about you twelve years ago. It won't change any time soon."

Dave was stomping towards them, muttering angrily underneath his breath. And Clara was against his chest, her lips pressing against his briefly.

"You're mad." She told him, settling back down beside him. "But blimey, I love you."

He smiled. "More than anything?" He teased.

She took his hand again. "And then some."

Dave's face was red.

"CLARA!" He yelled. He huffed and puffed, his hands going to his hips and then falling down again and then rising to gesture wildly. "You—"

But then he stopped, his eyes on Clara, and when the Doctor turned to see what he was looking at he locked eyes with Clara. She was looking at the Doctor with so much trust, so much surety, that he knew her answer before anything was said.

"You…" Dave looked at her like she had changed into someone else right before his eyes. He gave his head a slight shake, his gaze shifting like he was suddenly peering at her through different eyes. "You haven't answered him."

They were both gaping at him then. The Doctor had, in all honesty, fully anticipated another punch. This was almost worse because it was like psychological warfare.

Clara gave the Doctor a secret smile, the kind that he liked to tuck away into his memory to keep forever.

"Yeah I have." She said.

Dave Oswald's rules were firm. If they took their gap year, Clara was to call him weekly and keep him updated. She wasn't to get pregnant and never go to King's. They were both forced to swear—on everything they held dear—that they would follow through with their schooling. He recognized the fact that he couldn't stop them from getting married, nor would he try to, but he did ask that they allow him to be their witness if they had some impromptu wedding while on the road. As he told them, with almost a little frustration, any attempt to separate the two had always been fruitless. He'd given up on that a long time ago and accepted their attachment. He extended to his daughter all the freedom that Ellie's parents had extended towards her, because he understood the look in Clara's eye when she looked at the Doctor. And he, more than anyone else, respected fate.


	5. Bittersweet Tidings

**A/n:** Here's an early update to show my thanks for all the support! You guys are wonderful. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

_two orphans, one Christmas soufflé, and a really special chin_

* * *

It was a proven fact that, no matter how difficult it was to wake children up during the school week, they'd rise at an ungodly hour on Christmas morning. Clara Oswald was no exception to this rule. In fact, she was exceedingly determined to wake up as early as possible. She had long accepted that she had to sleep the night prior—even if she was so excited she stared up at the ceiling for hours prior to drifting off—so she decided to make sure she'd wake up at the crack of dawn. Those presents were _not_ going to sit out there and get all drafty just because they were waiting for her. No siree, no way.

She found an old alarm clock in their junk cupboard, stowed away because it still told time but didn't ring anymore, and Clara smuggled it into her room on Christmas Eve. She pulled various tools from her robe pockets, nicked from the tool kit on top of the fridge (_really,_ she thought, _they need to get more creative with that because I can climb up onto the counters, I am a good climber, they know that)_. She unscrewed the back hatch of the alarm clock like she'd seen her parents do to all her toys and peered inside of it. Then she found another set of screws so she unscrewed those. And then there was a mess of fine wires and chips with a strange green sheen that she found oddly beautiful. She tilted it this way and that, staring at how the light hit them. She traced her finger along a few of the wires, picturing in her mind what they might lead to. Next, she beamed, because she noticed something that she knew was important. One wire was slacker than the rest. She spent an hour fiddling with it, pushing it back into its port and securing it with that sticky black tape her daddy sometimes used, and then she plugged it up and set an alarm for exactly one minute later.

She threw her small body on top of the alarm clock when it began wailing, to ensure her parents didn't hear it. She was grinning from ear to ear as she carefully reassembled it fully, and then she carried it over to her bed and plugged it in behind the headboard, stuffing it snugly underneath her pillow.

"Five in the morning is the perfect time for presents." She told Saint John, a little defensively. He just kept looking at her funny so she pushed his furry face down on the mattress and then covered him up with her duvet.

She couldn't sleep that night, not that she expected to. She tried everything to fall asleep. She pulled her fan from the closet and blew it directly onto her pillow and sheets, thinking maybe she was just overheated. But that didn't help. She pulled all her animals up onto the bed with her and her bear, but then Saint John started looking reproachful and jealous, so she pushed them all but him back off onto the floor. But then she realized that when she shoved them all off at once it looked like they were falling off the edge of a sharp cliff, with probably a waterfall and alligators at the bottom, so of course she had to build them a raft and reenact the entire adventure. By the time she finally collapsed against her pillows, she'd decided that being a kid was hard work.

She had just drifted off at three—only two hours from her alarm's ringing—when she heard her parents' voices downstairs. She sat straight up, tearing herself easily from her odd dreams, and turned her head to the blue lights of the alarm. It was four in the morning. Why were her parents awake at four in the morning? She was immediately suspicious. They'd promised her they wouldn't wake up and take peeks at the presents she'd made them, but they were speaking in quiet, spy voices. You didn't speak in spy voices unless you were keeping something secret.

Figuring that she was already awake, she turned off the alarm and slid from her bed, sticking her feet into her cupcake slippers. She opened her door quietly and padded down the hallway until she was at the mouth of the staircase. She peeked her head around, peering down at the foyer. Her parents were standing at the door, still in their bedclothes, talking to someone Clara couldn't see from the angle she was at. She took a few careful steps forward and then lowered down onto her knees. From the top stair, she grabbed onto the railings and peered through them. She saw a blue nightgown, some gray slippers—

The adults suddenly began filing into the house and Clara almost toppled down the stairs in her haste to retreat back to the top landing. She pressed her back against the hallway wall and waited tersely to see if her parents had seen her. But they must not have, judging by the lack of voices screaming _CLARA OSWALD WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!_

She could hear the soft mumble of voices, too sleepy and quiet to make out any particular words. She figured she was a dead woman anyway so she decided to crawl down the staircase some. She sat in the middle, just close enough to hear the conversation, and then she turned and peered through the doorway right across from her line of vision. She could see her father sitting across from the lady who had been at the door—who she could now see was Ms. Tara—and her mother was fluttering nervously about, making tea judging by the smell in the air. Clara was suddenly jealous and wondered if she walked down if her mummy might make her some hot cocoa…but then she remembered that she was eavesdropping and that was a big no-no missy.

"—Dear God, Tara." Her father murmured. It was his tone that caught Clara's attention, effectively barring all wistful thoughts of chocolate from her mind. She couldn't make out his expression with much clarity, but she could tell by his shoulders that he was upset. He was leaning forward like he did whenever they watched those stupid weepy movies.

It was strange to her to see an adult cry. She stared at Tara intently, pressing her face through the bars in order to get a closer look. It was scary, that much she knew. Grown ups looked scared when they cried, but grown ups weren't supposed to be scared. They were the ones that fixed everything.

"And the boys? What about them?" Her mother asked.

Clara watched as Tara took a shuddering breath, her face hiden behind her hands.

"With me. They're inside sleeping right now. They were shaking and they couldn't stop and...well, they're staying with me."

Clara's view of Tara was momentarily blocked by her mother. She stared at her mother's back, wishing suddenly that she could run up to her and cling on. She didn't know what was happening but everyone was sad, and when everyone was sad she wanted her mother.

"They're blessed to have you, Tara." Her mother said gently. She set her hand on the older woman's shoulder, offering her quiet support.

"Not much is blessed about this situation, unfortunately." Tara argued softly. "I couldn't even get their presents from their house because it's roped off. Everything in the family room has to be processed. They said it could take a week for the boys to get their things."

Clara had to flatten herself onto the stairs as her mother suddenly turned, walking towards their family room.

"Here, we've got plenty, really, take-"

Clara slid slowly back up the stairs as her mother drew nearer, letting out a relieved sigh when she was out of sight. She listened to Tara and her mum argue about the presents—Tara refused to take anything, Clara's mum insisted she did, and they went back and forth like that for a couple of minutes. In the end Tara walked empty-handed from their house, her face still tear-streaked. Clara fell asleep in the hallway, her face pressed into the carpet and her mind full of fearful curiosity.

* * *

She woke a couple hours later. She was in her father's arms and the motion of him carrying her down the stairs woke her.

"You know what they say about curiosity, Clara." He reminded her chidingly.

She blinked the sleep from her eyes and peered up at his jaw. She leaned her head against his chest and tried to grasp the memories of the night prior, but they were caught in the web of her dream.

"It kills cats." She informed him sleepily. He kissed her forehead and set her down at the foot of the stairs, pausing momentarily to retie his robe against the early morning chill.

"Well, that's actually not the point of that saying, but you're getting there." He said. He took Clara's hand. "Why aren't you jumping up and down? We're about to go open presents."

He was looking at her like he looked at her whenever she was sick. Clara reached up with her free hand and felt her own head, but she didn't feel hot. She thought about her presents, but any time she did, all she could see was Ms. Tara's tears.

"What happened to Ms. Tara?" She asked her father, looking up at him curiously.

He picked her up suddenly, throwing her over his shoulder, and began to make train noises.

"IT'S THE POLAR EXPRESS! WE'RE GOING TO GET OUR PRESENTS!" He screamed. Clara forgot about her question momentarily as he began spinning her around, caught up in her laughter and the swirling reds of the foyer. He practically ran through the house to their Christmas tree, flipping Clara so he was holding her upside down by her ankles. She couldn't see much past the curtain of her hair, but she could make out the lights on the tree and the sheen of the wrapping paper.

"Presents!" She cried happily. Her father lifted her up and down by her ankles, letting her head come close enough to the floor to make her shriek with laughter before yanking her back up again.

"You have to say the magic word to get your presents. Santa's orders." Her father told her.

Clara caught sight of her mother, sliding sneakily into the room with the camcorder. She waved at her daughter.

"Happy Christmas, Clara!" She told her happily.

"Happy Ch- AHHH!"

Dave let go of Clara's legs abruptly, genuinely frightening her as she felt the tug of gravity at the pit of her stomach, only to catch her smoothly in a cradle a second later. Clara thought it was the coolest and funniest thing ever and she giggled hysterically for a couple seconds, draped in his arms.

"Daddy!" She yelled. "Don't drop me!"

He tickled her for a moment, grinning down at her face. "I didn't drop you! You said the magic word!"

She smacked his hands away and caught her breath, smiling up at him. "What was it?"

He let her fall again for a moment, catching her again without fail. "Happy."

Ellie propped the camcorder up on the side table and came over, pulling Clara from her father's arms.

"Present time! I'm running out of battery." She said urgently. Clara wrapped her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her cheek. Ellie sat down underneath the tree with Clara and pulled her into her lap, wrapping the blanket that was wrapped around her shoulders around both of them. Dave passed them present after present and Clara got everything she'd asked for and even more. She thanked her parents and jumped around excitedly, thinking about her new dolls and train set and walkie-talkies and—best yet—her own set of ramekins and oven mitts.

"This is the best Christmas ever!" She said, running at her mother and wrapping her arms around her waist. She pressed her face into her stomach and hugged her tight, resting contently for a moment as her mother smoothed her hair.

"Yeah!" She agreed, but it sounded off to Clara.

She curled up between both her parents on the couch and ate two cinnamon rolls (the Christmas tradition in her house), her mind jumping between all her new toys and how happy her parents had been when they saw what she'd made them. It was only when she noticed her mother's forlorn look that she remembered Ms. Tara from last night.

She tugged on her mother's sleeve, drawing her attention to her.

"Can we make a soufflé with my new stuff?" She asked her mother. Soufflés always made her mother feel better.

She smiled, but her eyes still looked sad. Clara hated when smiles and eyes didn't match up. It felt like a lie.

"Of course, love. I'll be there in a second." She promised.

Clara pulled all the ingredients from the cupboards and fridge and waited for her mother. She came in a minute later, still looking a little preoccupied with something, but they sang Christmas carols as they baked and that was a good enough start for Clara. It wasn't until they were watching their soufflés through the oven door that Clara remembered something from last night that she'd previously forgotten about.

"I bet the little boys like soufflés because I like soufflés." Clara pondered aloud.

Her mother looked at her a little sharply. "What little boys?"

Clara looked at her mother in confusion. "Ms. Tara's little boys."

Clara's mother kneeled down in front of her, her eyes narrowed in concern.

"Clara, where did you hear that? Were you eavesdropping last night?"

Clara assumed her father hadn't ratted her out. That was good manners.

She bit her lip guiltily. "Maybe by accident."

Ellie sighed.

"Clara, you know what we say—"

"If I eavesdrop, cats die." Clara finished impatiently. Her mother looked taken aback for a moment and torn between laughter and scolding. Clara decided to keep going before she lost her chance. "Can I bring mine over to the boys? Because it's Christmas and soufflés are good at Christmas."

Ellie seemed to bite back whatever answer had risen instinctively.

"That would be very nice of you, Clara. Watch the soufflés and I'm going to go talk to your daddy about it, okay?"

Clara nodded seriously. "I will not take my eyes off them. Not even for a trillisecond."

Her mother laughed and then set her hand on top of Clara's head briefly. "Be right back."

Clara stood and peered intently at their creations, her eyebrows drawn down.

"Don't even _think _about falling because I've got my eye on you blokes." She told them firmly. She waggled her finger at them, like her nana sometimes did when she was bad in public. "You're Christmas soufflés and you can't fall. It's in the rules. I would show you but I don't have my rule book with me, so you're just going to have to take my word for it."

She really meant to stare at them, honest, but after a few moments she could hear her parents' voices drifting down the hallway. She bit her lip and peered between the oven and the doorway, caught between her responsibility and curiosity.

"All the cats are dead," she finally murmured dramatically underneath her breath. "All the cats of the world and I am the killer." She sighed and shrugged her small shoulders. "What's to be done about it?"

She almost toppled over in her haste to reach the doorway. She stood gripping the doorframe; her head pushed out of the kitchen so she could catch her parents' words.

"I understand what you're saying, Ellie, and I agree that it's very compassionate of her. And I also agree that it would be good for her to have a companion here since we've just moved. But the fact is that we don't know what those boys are going to be like. Considering what they've just lived through, they're probably troubled. I don't think we should let Clara around them until we know for sure how they're doing mentally."

Clara found that interesting. Why were the boys troubled? What did they do to get in so much trouble that they became _troubled_? Sometimes she tried to put food coloring in the bath. Maybe they'd done that.

"It's not like she's going over there and chaining herself to them, Dave. She just wants to bring them a soufflé. That's all. Don't you think it would make their day just a little more manageable to know other people are thinking of them? They're nine and six. Just children, harmless children."

"You don't know if they're harmless. Troubled children do all sorts of troublesome things, like setting cats on fire and torturing dogs and—"

"Do you even hear yourself? Fatherhood has turned you into a raving worrywart! These poor boys are going to have to deal with incorrect assumptions the rest of their lives. Don't be the one to start it now. She just wants to do some good. Let her be good. We'll watch out for her and we'll keep an eye on him, but it's just a soufflé."

A pause. "You're right. I'm sorry. She's just—"

"Your whole entire world, yeah. Mine too. And that's why I know she'll be fine."

Clara rushed back to the oven when she heard her mother's footsteps. But alas; tragedy had knocked and Clara had left the door unlocked.

"I TOLD YOU IT WAS AGAINST THE RULES!" She moaned. She slumped down onto the floor, her lips pulled down into a pout.

Her mother approached her cautiously. "Clara, darling, what's—oh no, are they sinking again?"

Clara sniffed. "Another cat's dead and we don't have soufflés."

Her mother slid her across the floor slowly and then pulled the oven open, retrieving the soufflés.

"No, no, they're not that bad," she reassured Clara. "This one's the best. You can take them this one." She paused and looked at Clara. "And you do know that cats don't _actually_ die, right? It's an expression."

Clara gazed at her, her eyes wide. "And how would you know that cats aren't dying right now? You don't know all the cats in the world. They could be. They could."

Her mother was often caught trying to choose between laughter and lecturing.

* * *

Clara dressed herself, pulling on her favorite red dress and candy-cane stockings. Her mother braided her hair and pushed her arms into her wool jacket, forcing gloves and a scarf on her as well, much to Clara's distaste. She put on her boots and then stuck her gloved hands into her new oven mitts, carefully picking up the soufflé she was taking over to Ms. Tara's house.

Before she walked out the door, her parents stopped her. They kneeled down beside each other and looked at her seriously.

"Clara, don't ask the boys what's wrong or what happened to them, okay?" Her mother said gently.

Clara thought it was smart of them to say that, because sometimes her curiosity made her do things that were rude and she didn't even know they were rude until she'd already done them. She nodded.

"Okay." She said. She paused. "Will _you_ tell me?"

They exchanged slightly fearful looks. Her dad sighed and brushed a stray piece of hair back from her face.

"Their mummy and daddy died last night." He told her gently. She felt her face falling.

"Really?" She asked them.

Her mother nodded. "Yeah. So they're probably sad."

Clara nodded. "Because they miss them."

"Yes."

She thought and thought. "Why did they die?"

It took her parents a lot longer to reply than it normally did.

"Sometimes people die when they aren't old. Remember, we talked about that when your cousin died." Her mother reminded her gently.

Clara barely remembered that. She'd only been four. She stared at her parents and tried to imagine what it'd be like if they suddenly died, but the thought was too upsetting. Not her parents. Never her parents.

"That's really sad." She finally whispered. She wanted to cry for those boys but she knew it wouldn't make it better. She learned that last year.

Ellie hugged her close. "It is. But I bet this soufflé will make it a little better."

Clara smiled despite herself. "I bet. It's chocolatey and everyone likes chocolate."

She could feel her parents' eyes on her as she walked out the door.

"Bye! I'll be back soon!" She told them. They gave her a wave.

Clara walked through the gray snow carefully, focusing intently on the task of not falling over. Her favorite boots had a small heel that she sometimes couldn't handle. Her mother said she needed to work on her balance but Clara simply thought her boots needed to work on staying on the ground.

Ms. Tara's house did not have a wreath, or Christmas lights, or anything festive at all. Clara hoped there was at least a Christmas tree, but when the door opened, she peeked past the person quickly to see something that disturbed her. Nope. No Christmas tree.

She found herself staring at a boy with wild hair. He was older than her, but not that much. Just old enough to pick on her probably.

"Hi," he said. He didn't sound like he even knew it was Christmas morning.

"Hi." She said. "I'm Clara Oswald."

He just kept staring at her. She waited for his name, but nothing came. He turned and walked away wordlessly, much to Clara's confusion. She found herself standing in front of an open door with no one there, the soufflé getting cold in her hands. She felt like she might cry.

"I like that name."

She looked up quickly. She grinned happily when she saw that there was another boy in the doorway now. He had a funny chin and looked like he was probably her age. He could still pick on her, though. Boys her age still called her Shrimp sometimes. But then they regretted it because she was small but her fists were not (even though she wasn't supposed to "solve problems in that manner" anymore).

"What name? My name?" She asked him, suddenly feeling a little shy.

He nodded. His eyes were red like he'd been crying and he looked like he was very cold. She got the impulse to take her jacket off and give it to him—because he was only wearing a short sleeve shirt—but probably it wouldn't fit him anyway.

"It's just Clara." She said, her tone expressing how unimpressed she was with her own name.

His smile was small and sad, but it was there. Clara thought the way it transformed his face was magical.

"I like just Clara. It's a good name. There was a lady named Clara Barton. She was a nurse."

Clara hadn't known that. "That's cool. I'm going to be a secret agent when I get older. Like James Bond."

The older boy's sullen voice came from somewhere behind Chin Boy, but she couldn't see him.

"You can't be James Bond. You're a girl."

Clara scoffed. "I can be whatever I want. I got walkie-talkies."

Chin Boy was looking down at her rapidly deflating soufflé.

"What's that?" He asked.

She made to step into his house, but he didn't move, which she thought was kind of stupid. She had to set it down on the stove. He couldn't take it unless he too was wearing oven mitts, but he wasn't. He didn't even have a coat on.

"It's for you." She explained. "I need to put it on your stove. My mummy said it was important to put it on the stove and not let you touch the hotness."

When he still didn't look completely convinced, she sighed.

"It's a soufflé. It's chocolate and yummy. I made it for you. For Christmas." She explained further.

A slow smile spread out over his face. It was much better than the one she saw last time. Clara felt herself beam back in response.

"I like chocolate." He told her, a little shyly this time. "Thank you."

He stepped to the side, granting her entrance, and she walked in quickly, glad to be out of the cold.

"I've got my own ramekins now so I can make you some for your birthday probably." She told him. She glanced up at him, happy to see his smile was still in place.

"That sounds fun. Maybe we could play with your walkie-talkies one day." He suggested. "I want to be a secret agent when I grow up too."

She clapped her hands excitedly. "Yeah! I would love to do that! Let's do that, okay? My only friend here is Mary and she's nice but she never wants to run, on account of her leg."

Chin Boy opened the door to the kitchen and held it open for her, which was very nice manners. Clara made a mental note to tell her mummy about that.

"What's wrong with her leg?" Chin Boy asked curiously. Clara walked over and set the soufflé down carefully on the stovetop. Their kitchen did not smell like Christmas dinner. She wondered if maybe her parents would invite them over to their house.

"She's missing one. It's gone." She told him. She turned and looked at him, peering seriously at him to make sure he understood what she meant. "I mean she only has one. Just one."

His eyes widened. "Whoa! What happened to the other?"

Clara wrinkled her brow as she thought. "I dunno. It got taken away or something. Anyway, you should eat that soufflé with powdered sugar. That's the best way. And also you should bring that ramekin back when you're done, because it's one of my new ones I got today."

He nodded, listening carefully to her instructions. "Which one is your house?"

"Ms. Tara can show you." She reassured him.

He nodded again. Clara pointed at her stockings.

"They've got candy-canes on them." She said proudly.

He looked at them approvingly. "I wish boys could wear candy-cane stockings."

She glanced him over, scanning her eyes from his slightly disheveled hair to his dingy socks.

"You could wear a bowtie with candy-canes. They make those, I've seen them. James Bond wears bowties." She decided.

"Good idea." He agreed.

Clara registered the chill of the house. She was suddenly eager to be home, so she could sit in her mother's lap and drink hot cocoa. She gave him a wave. "See you later, Chin Boy. I hope you like the soufflé."

He walked with her back to the door, his face stretching up into a humored smile. She tried to stuff her oven mitts into her coat pockets but found they wouldn't fit. She stood there trying to jam them in while he seemed to be thinking about something.

"My name's not Chin Boy." He argued finally. She glanced up from her stubborn oven mitts and saw that he was still smiling, so she decided he didn't think she was picking on him.

"It is to me." She said. "Happy Christmas!"

She swung her oven mitts from her hands as she walked towards her house. She heard him murmur a quiet "Happy Christmas" behind her.

Her parents bombarded her the minute she walked in the door, asking question after question. She gave them a sour look.

"You're killing your own cats with all this curiosity." She told them honestly.

"Did they seem okay?" Ellie asked in concern.

"Did they seem scary?" Dave wanted to know.

"Did they like the soufflé? Did they have any presents? Did you see Ms. Tara? Was there a turkey?"

Clara felt herself caving underneath the pressure of all those questions. She wasn't even sure which one to start with. So she decided to tell them what she wanted and ignore the specific inquiries.

"I met a boy my age." She informed her parents. "He likes to play secret agents too and he said he'd come play with me. He didn't know what a soufflé was. He held the door open for me. His brother was sad, very sad, and he was too, but he smiled three times. He told me that he liked my name. And also I think that probably he's my new friend."

Her parents exchanged humored glances and then smiled warmly at her.

"Well, that's great, Clara." Ellie said. She pulled her in for a tight hug. "You're such a sweet girl."

Clara looked up at her mum when she let her go. "He's got the best chin, Mummy. It's like…wow! Very special."

Her mother tweaked her nose teasingly. "You're an interesting little girl, Clara."

Clara grinned. "Thanks! You're an interesting mummy."

"I'm not sure how I feel about that chin comment," her father muttered underneath his breath. Ellie rolled her eyes at him and turned back to her daughter.

"Movies and hot cocoa?" She asked.

Clara nodded. "Movies and hot cocoa!"

She had no idea that Chin Boy would finish the soufflé that quick, but she was impressed with his timely return of her ramekin. He knocked on the door just as they started their first movie, warm mugs in their hands, and Clara took one look at his red cheeks and shaking shoulders before pulling him through the door.

"WE HAVE A GUEST FOR CHRISTMAS COCOA." She declared.

She pulled him by the hand into the family room—bothered by the coldness of his hands—and handed him one of the blankets folded on the side table. Her mother hurried in from the kitchen a moment later, a freshly-poured mug of hot cocoa in her hand. She walked over to him and smiled warmly, extending the mug handle-first.

"For you, John, if you want to stay." She said kindly.

He stared at the offered mug a little hesitantly, like he thought there was a catch to it. Clara nudged him with her elbow and nodded, encouraging him to take it. He pulled it slowly from Ellie's hands and peered down at the contents.

"Thank you." He said softly.

Ellie smiled. "It's absolutely no problem, John." She told him. She kneeled down and gently touched his shoulder. "If you need anything, we're here."

He nodded shyly. When his smile slowly began appearing on his face, Clara resisted the urge to grab her mother's sleeve and point happily.

"I go by Doctor." He told her hesitantly. "No one calls me John."

Clara thought that was, without a doubt, the coolest thing in the world. She stared at him with wide, awe-struck eyes.

"Like a secret agent," she breathed.

He smiled at her and seemed to stand a little straighter after that. Ellie nodded, accepting it easily.

"Okay then, Doctor. I'll phone Tara and tell her where you are if you want to sit."

Clara took his hand—pleased to find that it was a little warmer now—and tugged him towards the couch. She sat beside the spot her mother had vacated and pulled the Doctor down on her other side. She spread out her blanket and then spread out the one she'd handed him, tucking them both around them like she'd seen her mother do. She thought with pride that he looked much warmer.

When the Doctor left halfway through the movie to take a call from Tara, Ellie leaned close to Clara's ear.

"He's charming." She told her daughter. Clara nodded in agreement. She thought about him, about his niceness and his sad eyes and his happy smile.

"He's special." She decided, and she knew she was right.


	6. The Fire Went Wild

**A/n: **Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! To the guest who requested more teenage Clara/11- I didn't have anymore oneshots of them at that age in progress yet, but I moved this one up because it was closest to that age range (Clara and 11 are in their early 20s here). But there will be more to see of their teenage years in the future, no worries :)

* * *

_for better or for worse, grace kelly, and one seemingly endless degree in medicine_

* * *

To truly understand the brevity of time, one only needs to put off writing an essay. One minute you've got two weeks until the due date and the next it's three days 'till.

Or, frankly put, the Doctor was an idiot. That was what Clara had told him the night prior at least.

"It's not so bad," he'd told Tara on the phone during lunchtime, after she'd expressed her horror at hearing that the Doctor had yet to start writing it. "It's just…twenty pages on the entire course. I'll be fine."

Clara had woken up at six that morning, frazzled and murmuring things he didn't quite understand underneath her breath as she stumbled from their bed and groped in the dark for her laptop. She'd disappeared into the tiny sitting room and he hadn't seen her again that morning. He'd decided to go to the library that afternoon, to grant Clara some peace and quiet for whatever she was working on, but after ten minutes of listening to a woman chomping loudly on sunflower seeds he lost his patience. He considered turning around and screaming in her face—just yelling loudly, not saying anything in particular—but then decided he'd rather go home, as he was hungrier than he'd thought.

He spent the entire walk cursing the course, even though he probably should have been attempting to read some of his textbook. But the problem lied in the fact that he despised Ethical Issues in Medicine. The class had been dull from day one and hadn't improved with time. All of the lectures were largely dedicated to spewing off laws and regulations that the lecturer expected to be memorized word-for-word, and he never passed up the chance to tell one horror story or another about an "innocent" doctor who was "hanged by ignorance and the law". The Doctor was about ready to carry his own noose to lectures, just to escape the misery.

He knew it was his own fault he was in this mess, because as Clara had been quick to remind him, he'd had the assignment since the first day of the course. He was supposed to be working on it throughout the course, as he learned new laws, but he'd always found some excuse or another to put it off. He was too busy reading for Teaching Children about Health, he was too preoccupied with the overwhelming lab days that Intro to Neurology required. (Or, if he was being completely honest, he was too busy watching terrible horror films with Clara and making sure they christened each room in their tiny new flat).

He was still thinking with acute self-loathing about his irresponsible choices as he stuck his key into the door, thinking hard about what he could do to solve this problem. A time machine would do the trick, but he just knew that if he did have one there was no way in hell he'd use it to go back in time in order to write an essay. He'd probably use it to go back in time to the year he and Clara spent on the road. And then he'd just keep reliving that for the rest of his life until he died. Secretly, that's all he wanted. He had delusions of working and saving money until they had as much as they needed to live life on the road forever.

The entire flat was still dark when he entered, save for the dim light coming in from behind the edges of the heavy curtains in the sitting room. The Doctor traveled through the small space, momentarily flipping on the lights in search of his wife, his essay momentarily forgotten.

"Clara?" He called.

He stuck his head into the bathroom off their bedroom, even checking behind the shower curtain, but she wasn't there either. He walked the short distance back to the sitting room and pulled the door open all the way, flooding it with light from the kitchen.

"Clara? Are you—Oh. Hello?"

Clara was—from what he could tell—in the same exact spot he presumed she'd been in this morning when he left. She was on their small, cheap sofa, still undressed except for a white tanktop and her red underwear, her eyes wide and almost panicked as she stared at her laptop screen. She seemed to be typing nonstop, excluding the few seconds she'd use to sit back from the screen and gnaw on her thumbnail.

The Doctor approached her cautiously, like one might approach an injured animal in the wild. Her hair did nothing but back up that image. The Doctor could tell she'd been pulling at it, a hunch that was confirmed when she then lifted her hands and buried them into her hair in frustration. She let out a groan, her eyes still on the laptop. He was certain by the bloodshot quality to them that they hadn't left the screen once that day.

She didn't notice he was there until he carefully sank down beside her on the cushion and set a hand on her bare shoulder.

"Hi, love you, you should have done your essay last week," she said in one breath, her eyes still on the screen. She finished typing in a string of symbols and letters faster than the Doctor had ever seen and then lifted her thumb back up to her mouth. The Doctor noticed she'd gnawed the nail down to her skin, causing her nailbed to bleed.

He realized he was gaping at her, suddenly as entranced by the sight of her as she was by her computer, his mind reeling with genuine concern. Clara had finished her bachelor's in Computer Science last fall and was now knee-deep in working towards her master's in Computing and Security. It had been stressful from the get-go—with her staying up until four AM and bursting randomly into tears over dinner—but he'd never seen it like this. This was new. This was…well, she looked outside the same way the Doctor felt inside at the end of his third year, and that wasn't anything he wanted her to feel.

"Is everything…okay?" He asked her carefully, turning his gaze from her anguished face to the computer screen. It was completely black save the white letters, numbers, and symbols that Clara was presumably adding. Although, as he watched it, he noticed that every couple of seconds some yellow coding would appear even though Clara's hands were currently at her mouth.

"No, not at all." She told him honestly, her voice teetering. "I haven't gone to the loo in nine hours and I might be having auditory hallucinations."

"O…kay." He said slowly. He took one last look at her face and then reached forward for her computer, warily moving it back. She watched it move away from her in distended horror, her eyes widening in panic like she had just been shot.

"No!" She shrieked. "I need that! I need it!"

He thought his eyes must have been as wide as hers. "Clara, darling, you're sounding like a meth addict. And looking like one too."

She rose to lean over his lap and pull the computer from his grasp, but the minute she stood, she crossed her legs tightly.

"Oh dear," she said, and then she was just a blur of white and red as she raced towards the toilets. He estimated that it had literally been only fifteen seconds before he heard the flush and she was racing back towards him. He anticipated her reach and stood, holding it above his head before she could even lunge for it.

She pulled at her face, slapping her cheeks a few times to stay awake. He heard the distinct sound of her stomach rumbling even if she didn't appear to. She rose desperately onto her tiptoes, reaching for it.

"Please, I need it!" She yelled.

He set a gentle hand on her shoulder, balancing the computer with his other and keeping it from her grasps.

"You're scaring me." He admitted. "When's the last time you ate? Last night?"

She pulled at her hair again and stomped like a child.

"I _can't_ eat—I've got to—the other's probably gotten through my defenses—oh, Christ, GIVE IT TO ME NOW!" She stood up on the coffee table and snatched the laptop from his hand quicker than he anticipated, falling down onto the sofa in a rather impressive jump. "This is _not _the time for your concerned husband act!" She yelled, scolding him without even glancing his way.

He glared at her. "Would you rather I be an absent husband? Because I can go stay at Amy and Rory's if I'm being too much of a bother. Or even Charlotte's."

She shot him a distracted look and groaned again, her fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard. "Doctor, you don't—fuck! Fuck fuck fuck! Fuckity fucking fuck—" Her cursing stopped as abruptly as it started. She leaned slightly towards the screen, breathing deeply like she'd just run a mile, and then she let out a relieved sigh. "Oh, okay. Nevermind. It's fine, false alarm."

He'd been staring at her in shock for at least a minute when she finally looked his way, dropping her bleeding thumb from her mouth. She wiped it absentmindedly on her bare thigh, leaving a slight smear of blood.

"I might possibly be the sole person defending MI5 from hackers." She blurted out. "Currently, that is."

The Doctor felt his jaw actually drop at that, like he was in a cartoon. He blinked at her and then gave his head a shake.

"You're—_what_ now? I'm sorry?" He demanded.

Clara sucked in her cheeks and nodded, bouncing her legs up and down and pulling at her hair.

"Not sure. Unsure. Professor Davros is such a vague little prick. I thought he was joking, but I think he might have been serious!"

The Doctor fell back onto the couch beside her, peering over her shoulder at the screen. It hadn't changed except for a long block of yellow coding from when he'd snatched the laptop from her.

"What exactly did he say?" He asked her urgently. He was beginning to feel panicked as well, but not for the safety of the Security Service. Clara could handle it, that much he knew, but he didn't think she should have to. He was worried about _her_.

She cursed again (the Doctor had heard her curse more today than he had in the past two years combined) and leaned back over the keyboard, beginning her coding attack on whoever was on the other end of it. After at least two minutes of continuous typing, she sat back and took in shallow breaths. The Doctor hurriedly slid closer to her and began kneading the knots in her back, his eyes still glued to the screen. It was almost hypnotizing. He suddenly understood why Clara had taken this route.

"He said _all right, don't forget to do your readings, and by the way: you've each got privately scheduled cyber assessments. You'll be personally in charge of maintaining security for various organizations in our university and government for twelve hours, depending on your abilities, and you'll pass if no one gets through. Our earliest is at six, so sleep well tonight!_" Clara's impersonation of her professor made it very clear to the Doctor that he had a smoker's cough. She took a deep breath, peering carefully at the screen to make sure no yellow coding had been added, and then continued. "So I checked it last night and it said I was scheduled for MI5 from 6 to 6. I thought it was a joke, like some sort of freaky computing roleplay, but…but..." she paused and turned to the Doctor, her eyes haunted. "Either he's _really bloody good_ at faking military information and websites, or he's seriously a criminal, and I am_ NOT_ going to jail for a man that smells like tuna and cabbage!"

She leaned forward, momentarily collapsing onto herself so her face was pressed against her thighs. The Doctor pulled her tank top up and rubbed the smooth skin of her back soothingly.

"It's okay, it's fine," he comforted. "There's no way he could legally get them to let some random person control their defenses for twelve hours. I'm sure it's just a really great simulation."

"Simulation or not, I'm dying here!" She cried, her voice muffled.

"Well, have they broken through?" He asked her, attempting to find a bright side.

He heard her sniff. She gave no other indication that she was crying, probably because she didn't want him to know that she was, but he could tell.

"No." She finally said.

"So it's fine." He told her. "He gave you the most important one because he knew you were the most capable. It's a compliment…a twisted, possibly-illegal compliment…but a compliment nonetheless."

Her stomach gave another insistent growl. He leaned over and kissed her spine, tasting a bit of salt from her sweat. Seeing this had suddenly put his own academic troubles into sharp clarity. He may be screwed, but at least his essay didn't have him breaking a sweat and holding his urine for nine hours straight. She sat back up a second later and began typing madly again. He combed his fingers through her stringy hair a couple of times and then tucked it nicely behind her ears.

"I'm going to go make you something to eat, okay? You can eat and type." He informed her.

She shook her head, her tired eyes back on the screen. "You need to start your essay."

"And you need to eat. You're the one I vowed to support through times of hardship, not Ethical Issues in Medicine." He replied. He smiled at her knowingly. "Come on, I'll make you cheese and beans on toast."

Those words seemed to trigger something in her brain. Her stomach gave another growl, as if it understood the offer and was giving its input. Clara turned and looked him in the eye for the first time since he arrived home, hers brimming with gratitude.

"You are absolutely the best person to ever live and once I'm done with this I'm going to thank you properly. All night."

He flushed happily. "I do love the sound of that, but I have an essay to write, remember?"

She turned back to her computer. He could see from the dim yellow glow on her skin that the yellow coding had begun showing up again.

"Then finish quickly, because I've got a lot of gratitude to show." She told him. She spared a moment to look at him with her trademark smirk. He grinned for the next few minutes just thinking about how much he loved that smirk and the dimple it showed. He still had it bad.

He overcooked the beans a bit, but if she noticed they were stickier than normal, she didn't say. Between bites she cursed at her computer and proclaimed her undying love for him. The afternoon was much different than he had expected, but better too. His life with Clara was just overall like that.

After they ate, he spread his books out on the floor and started working on an outline for his essay. He tried his hardest to pay attention, but every few minutes his head would lift automatically to gaze at Clara, who was looking much saner after eating. She said her worrying "auditory hallucinations" had stopped at least. He took notes and outlined the paper all the way to page ten, but then he was stuck staring at the elegant curve of her neck, his pencil tapping restlessly against the notebook. He did this for another hour, glancing between his notebook and Clara's determined expression and his textbook and Clara's bare legs and his laptop screen and Clara's collarbones and—he should have just screamed in Sunflower Seed Lady's face.

"Clara," he whined, halfway through outlining the thirteenth page. "I can't do it."

She glanced up. It seemed the yellow coding had practically given up on its twelve-hour siege, because she was looking much more relaxed than before.

"Writer's block?" She guessed.

He groaned, flopping face-down onto the floor, his face buried in his open textbook. The pages smelled suspiciously of beer.

"Clara block." He muttered in frustration, his words muffled by his textbook pages. "You're distracting me."

"Oh, _I'm_ distracting _you_?!" She said in mock surprise. "I'm so sorry, you poor, poor thing!" He lifted his head up, peering at her indignant expression through his mop of hair. "You took my laptop from my hands!" She accused. "I'm just sitting here!"

He lifted a hand and gestured at her miserably. "Beautifully! You are sitting there beautifully!"

She stared at him in disbelief, gesturing almost manically at her unwashed hair and pallid face.

He groaned. "Beautiful!" He lowered his head back onto the textbook and rolled his forehead back and forth over the pages, mildly distressed. He was never going to finish his degree. He wondered if "newlywed" was a valid excuse for not turning in an assignment on time. Probably not. It definitely wouldn't be a valid excuse for flunking out in Tara's eyes. Seeing as though "a piece of her heart died" the day he married Clara, it'd only fuel her crusade against his wife.

Clara didn't say anything else for the next few minutes. He heard her grumbling underneath her breath, but he couldn't make out any of it, so he wasn't sure if it was aimed at him or her professor or her laptop. When her twelve hours were finally up, she let out an almost pitiful cry, slamming her laptop shut forcefully.

"If I never see another computer screen again, it'll be too soon." She cried passionately. She sounded close to tears again, but it soon passed.

He hadn't realized that he was peering at his pages in the dimming afternoon light until Clara flipped the lights on abruptly. He blinked against the sudden brightness and tried to take in what he was reading. _The Caldicott Guardian should oversee all arrangements, protocols and procedures where confidential patient information may be…_

The words began blurring. Clara walked back into the room a few minutes later, freshly showered and in one of his last clean shirts.

"I was going to wear that tomorrow," he complained.

She glanced down at what she was wearing like she wasn't even aware that she had it on. But it was all an act. She wore that one more than he did. She'd been nicking it any chance she could get for three years.

"I'm just going to sleep in it," she said innocently. "You can still wear it tomorrow. You can pull it off me in the morning and everything."

He thought about the fact that he might smell her on it all day if he did that, and that it'd even be warm from being on her body all night, and that made him giddy. He suppressed his grin and shrugged sadly like he was being punished, but he could tell by the spring in her step that she saw right through him.

He gave up on the sentence he'd read four times. Clara sat down slowly beside him, bringing with her a sudden whiff of the laundry detergent they'd begun to use habitually. It was nice that their home together had a smell now, a scent that others would associate with them. A scent that he could associate with their shared life. She stretched out on her stomach beside him, leaning her head against his shoulder as she pulled his outline over to her. He tried to keep reading as she read over what he had so far, but the warmth radiating onto him from her body was distracting.

"Why'd you stop?" She asked him, once she reached the end. "You've got it outlined to page fifteen. You only have five more."

The phrase _five more_ made him whimper. He pressed his face back into his textbook. He thought about what might happen if he cried onto the pages and smudged the print to the point that it was unreadable. Could _that _be an excuse?

"I hate it so much." He groaned. "I'll never understand why we didn't just stay on the road forever."

Clara pulled the textbook out from underneath his face, causing his nose to make sharp contact with the thin carpet. He lifted his head slightly and glared at her as she flipped through the pages, indifferent to his slight suffering.

"Because we ran out of money and were living on peanuts and bottled water." She reminded him.

The word "peanuts" brought back a faint memory of the taste of them. And the taste of them made him feel highly nauseated. "Arg, don't say the p word!"

She shrugged, flipping to a different chapter. "You asked. I told."

He sighed and rested his head on top of hers, smiling despite himself at the scent of her shampoo. He lifted his arm up from in front of him and reached back so he could rest it on Clara's back. He traced the nape of her neck, still damp from the water sliding down from her towel-wrapped hair, and then reached down to the hem of her borrowed shirt. He ran his hand over her bum, sighing wistfully.

"The black undies are my favorite. The fundie undies."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and shot him a look that was half humor and half irritation. She wore that look quite a lot. He was partial to it. "Please don't ever say that phrase again."

He moved his hand to her hip, still stroking the silky material.

"They're fun." He insisted. "And, okay, maybe we were severely malnourished and sleep deprived, but don't you miss cozying up in the backseat every night? And washing each other's hair on the side of the road with water bottles and hotel shampoos?"

She lowered the book and smiled. "Maybe a _little_," she teased. She grew slightly nostalgic after that and peered at him sweetly. "I miss how you'd squint your eyes when it was sunny. And the singing. Mostly I miss waking up to you singing Johnny Cash songs. I miss that a lot." She reached up and touched his smooth chin. "I don't miss the beard though. The beard burn was awful and you looked a bit like Jesus."

He grinned playfully. "Was I your salvation?"

"Oh dear God," Clara murmured, turning back to his textbook with an eye roll. But a moment later she was smiling down at the pages.

"I miss…" he trailed off, smiling down at Clara's downturned smile as he tried to pick just three things. "Just being surrounded by you and no one else. And how your nose would scrunch up angrily whenever I got us lost for the third time in one day. And your bra-less tendencies."

She looked up at him, her smile still in place. "What _don't_ you miss?"

He prodded her side jokingly, his lips curving up. "Definitely don't miss how your legs would get all prickly between guest house stops."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he expected some sort of snappy reply, but instead she lifted her left leg and ran it over the backs of his calves.

"Silky smooth." She said proudly. "The joys of domestic life."

He pushed himself up so he was sitting on the floor and he grabbed her leg, pressing a dramatic kiss to her shin. He ran his cheek over the smoothness, smiling when he heard her begin to laugh in that carefree way that always made him feel complete.

"It's a miracle!" He cried. "Our aesthetically-focused culture has pruned you of all your leg hair!"

Clara pulled her leg back from him and sat up as well, still laughing. She feigned confusion as she tried to stifle her laughter. "Leg hair? What leg hair? Girls don't have leg hair. Who told you that? It's a lie."

He was the one laughing this time. He slid closer to her and leaned over her, pushing her back down onto the carpet. She gripped his shoulders and he kissed her warmly, his lips still pulled up into a smile. He smoothed her hair back and pressed kisses to her cheek.

"I know all about you _and_ your leg hair. There's no hiding from me, Clara Oswald." He told her lowly.

She laughed against his lips.

"How romantic," she sighed. He could taste the sarcasm on her breath even if she hadn't made it blatant in her tone. "And that's Clara Oswald-Smith to you."

"Oh yeah," he said happily. He sat back up and smiled at her tenderly. "Clara Oswald-Smith."

She leaned up slightly and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck in response, dragging him back down on top of her as she kissed him languidly. She pulled back and smiled, her fingers still pulling through his hair.

"Don't forget it." She said, and then she pressed her hands to his chest and pushed him back up. She handed his textbook to him, nodding pointedly at his outline.

"I couldn't even if I tried. You steal my clothes and sleep halfway on top of me." He informed her.

She smoothed her hands down her stomach. "This shirt is so soft." She taunted.

He scoffed and peered at it a little jealously. "You're acting like a child."

She grinned like that was a compliment, but soon she was shoving his outline towards him. Ever the believer in giving as much as she took, she spent the next three hours helping the Doctor with his outline and the first few pages of his essay, providing words when he couldn't think of themand keeping him on track. When he finished the sixth page, Clara rose from his side and began walking to the kitchen. It was ridiculous to him that he still felt sad whenever she walked from a room, even though he knew she was coming back.

When she didn't come back in after ten minutes, he sat up and listened closely, just to make sure she wasn't crying for help somewhere in the flat. But then he heard her muffled voice from the other room. Judging by her relaxed tone, she was talking to her father or her friend Charlotte and not Tara. Once the Doctor knew he didn't have to rescue her from needless scolding from his mother figure, he went back to his essay.

He'd gotten to page eleven (over halfway through!) when he heard the unnaturally long phone call end. He assumed she'd been retelling her MI5 drama.

"Clara!" He called.

"Hmm?" He heard in reply.

"I've got eleven pages! That's over half!" He called. He pointed happily at his laptop, even though she wasn't in the room. "I want to talk to you!"

She walked through the doorway a moment later. He turned back to look at her, amused to find her leaning dramatically against the doorframe, the back of her hand pressed over her forehead.

"The last time we talked, Mr. Smith, you reduced me to tears." She quoted. "I promise you it won't happen again."

He was torn between laughing and groaning. He settled on a strange mixture, the tune of Amy's favorite—and incessantly played—song filling his brain. He jumped up to his feet, his knees crying out in protest, and slid over to Clara. He took her soft hands and peered desperately at her.

"Do I attract you? Do I repulse you with my queasy smile?" He asked seriously. Her lips quivered as she fought back laughter, attempting to stay in character. "Am I too dirty, am I too flirty? Do I like what you like?" He reached up and held her face, peering at her with a tender urgency. "I could be wholesome! I could be loathsome. I guess I'm a little bit shy. Why don't you like me?!"

She peered at him sternly but she couldn't stop her smile.

"Getting angry doesn't solve anything." She quoted, but then she snorted and they were laughing, leaning heavily against each other.

"Brilliant! We've got to do that for Amy! She'll be so thrilled!" The Doctor exclaimed.

Clara peered past his shoulder once her laughter ceased. She straightened and nodded her head at his computer.

"Did you say you got ten pages done?" She asked.

He grinned. "Eleven!"

"Even better," she said, and then she set her hands on his shoulders and pushed him against the wall.

"Ka-ching," he quoted against her lips, earning him another round of laughter. But then there was no more quoting of pop songs, because when she set her mind to expressing her gratitude, she really meant it.

So many of Clara and the Doctor's friends from university had told them they were crazy for getting married so young, that marriage ended your life so to speak. And in a way, the Doctor supposed they were right, because what happened afterwards was more like heaven.


	7. Here and Gone

**A/n:** I'm sorry for the wait and for how behind I am on review replying. It's been a very busy week but I'm slowly catching up :) Next chapter will focus on the frequently-mentioned gap year. This one was closer to being finished than that one so I switched the order to shorten the wait between updates.

* * *

_could haves, the burden of missing, and strength_

* * *

It was an unusually warm October afternoon and he was buying Christmas gifts on his lunch break.

To say he was excited about his daughter's second Christmas would be an understatement. He'd thought that each Christmas would lessen his enthusiasm from the extreme point it was at on her first Christmas, but he'd been buying gifts since mid-May, so he was realizing that this was just part of his life now. He was at least a little better than he'd been last year. He'd bought Lottie's first Christmas present (a brilliant set of wood building blocks and sorting shapes, hand painted in bright colors) two weeks after she was born in April. This year, just like the last, he'd been stockpiling the purchases in the spare bedroom, and he feared they would soon run out of storage space, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Every toy he saw that looked like it might bring a smile to her face he was helpless to purchase. Clara had started warning him about it, explaining that Lottie already had plenty of toys and that she wouldn't even remember this Christmas (or the last) because she was only going to be twenty months old. But it didn't matter to him if she remembered it in fifteen years. What mattered to him was each individual moment, regardless of the entire picture. His mission was to make sure she always felt loved and warm, each and every day, and on Christmas more than ever. He had almost never been happier than he was on her first Christmas morning, when he got to wake her up and carry her into the family room and sit beside her as Clara helped her attempt to open all her gifts. She'd smiled and laughed so happily at each toy she uncovered, and it was enough to make the Doctor fall desperately in love with her all over again.

He didn't have to explain to Clara why he was so intent on making that day wonderful, nor why he spent a good percentage of the year preparing for it. He had few memories of Christmas at his own house before the one that led him to Tara's, but he did remember that they hardly did anything at all. On that sick Christmas twenty-two years ago now, before the shots were fired, he'd been lying in his bed thinking about how excited he was for the future, because for the very first time his parents had bought them a Christmas tree. And presents. They hadn't had that stuff before, not ever (or at least—not that he could remember). To a six year old, presents always meant that you were loved. He hadn't quite understood then that sometimes they were apologies.

If his presents to Lottie were ever apologies, they were only apologies for how much he loved her. Never for a darkness inside of himself that he couldn't (or wouldn't) fight, and he felt that it was okay. The entire world was okay and everything was beautiful, and it was a surety he tried hard to instill into his daughter. The Oswalds had done such a wonderful job of raising Clara tenderly and carefully, shielding her from the blows of the worst and helping to cushion the rest, and that was how the Doctor wanted Lottie to be, too. He wanted her to live in a world where mummies and daddies only left their children if they were forced. Where Christmas meant baking and laughing, good food and good company. They'd done a great job so far and the Doctor intended it to stay that way for as long as possible.

Despite his good intentions, however, he knew he had a problem. He looked at the items in the basket a little guiltily but he didn't hesitant to purchase them. He was suddenly positive that the only purpose of being wealthy was buying tiny toddler tea sets and state-of-the-art train sets. Clara, ever the pragmatist, didn't quite agree, but that was only because she was nearing maternity leave (_again_, as she said with some frustration every few days) and was already getting anxious about the fragmented pay she'd be getting after her first six weeks on leave. But the Doctor was three years into his higher training and the pay wasn't bad (not to mention it wasn't even close to the pay he'd be receiving once he finished and became a fully qualified neurosurgeon), so he knew it was just her mummy-jitters. Money was fine and he could give his children the things he'd never had, and that was cause enough for bliss.

He had planned to stop buying and begin his walk back to the hospital, but on his way, he spotted an over-eager display of Christmas items. Before he was a parent it used to irritate him to see Christmas things out before early November, but now he practically counted down the calendar days. And at this current moment in time, he was staring at a display of newborn baby socks with candy-canes on them.

It took him around thirty seconds to locate an attendant.

"I want to buy those socks in the window." He informed her firmly. He pointed back at the tiny, festive socks with his thumb.

The woman—chomping unprofessionally on chewing gum—looked him over.

"Bit small for your feet, don't you think?" She said coyly.

Her sass didn't faze him, because this was his favorite part. Now he got to talk about his children.

"My wife's pregnant. It's a girl. She's due in January." He said proudly. "We're naming her Ellabell. Our other daughter made it up. Isn't it brilliant? It's all so brilliant."

He laughed happily, peering expectantly at the shop girl. He was waiting for the conversation to begin; the conversation always grew from there. People loved to talk about babies. But when she just kept staring at him with that bored expression, he grew disappointed. He hadn't even gotten to tell her about Lottie's growing vocabulary and it didn't look like he was going to get to.

"You do know that if you buy her those socks she won't be able to wear them on her first Christmas, right?" She pointed out.

He was becoming rapidly disenchanted with the woman.

"She's going to wear them home from the hospital. It doesn't have to be Christmas to wear Christmas socks." He argued. He began glancing around for another attendant. He didn't want to associate with someone who thought it had to be Christmas to wear delightful candy-cane socks.

She sighed.

"I'll get a pair for you." She said dryly. She walked off, muttering something or another about the "baby culture" underneath her breath, and the Doctor waited contentedly for her.

He put the newly purchased socks into his bag and walked the short distance back to the hospital. He tried to stuff the shopping bag into his already-full locker, but doing that caused an avalanche of shopping bags to fall on top of him. He looked into his messy locker, standing in a pile of books and toys and little outfits, and sighed heavily. He pulled his medical coat and phone free from the mess at his feet and took off his jacket, quickly pulling the white coat on instead and placing the phone into his pocket. He hung his jacket nicely on the hook and then began picking up each bag, stacking them neatly in the locker. He only had his most recent bag left when his phone dinged. He shifted the bag onto his arm and dug his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen to see he had fifteen missed calls and three voicemails. He'd been in surgery all morning, removing a tumor from a judge's right cerebral hemisphere, and he'd forgotten to grab it when he left for his lunch break. He made sure none of the calls were from the daycare at Clara's work first (it'd taken weeks to get her to adjust to being away from them, Clara especially, and sometimes she still had them call him or Clara so she could hear their voices and be reassured that they were still out there somewhere), but all the calls were from other people. He had two from Clara (as well as two voicemails from her), three from his brother, one from Charlotte (who left one voicemail), four from Rory, one from Martha, and four from his sister-in-law (she'd only left one voicemail at least).

He was automatically panicking. He listened to Clara's voicemail first, grinning at the sound of her typing in the background because surely nothing was wrong if she was still at work typing. But then again, she very well could be typing in the midst of some tragedy. She was worlds away from the woman she'd been during university, who had a slight breakdown at the idea of having any sort of real responsibility. He'd seen her nurse Lottie while simultaneously reworking a hacked flight's navigation codes from her laptop, and really, he'd to date never seen anything more impressive. So when she began speaking and she sounded stressed, he felt himself growing concerned.

"Good morning. Sorry I missed you this morning; I had to come in early. Idiotic Delta bloke, per usual. I know you're in surgery right now and I really hope you remember to grab your phone afterwards, because I—" She paused after taking a slightly heavy breath. He heard her typing dwindle in the background. "I'm actually feeling kind of awful and I think I'm going to leave work early and go lie down, but I just remembered we don't have any papayas at the house, so if you could go by Sainsbury's and grab a few on your way home I would love you for approximately a hundred thousand million more days than I already will. Okay. I love you and I hope you didn't sneeze during surgery or anything like that. Bye."

He frowned as he quickly dug his pen from his other pocket, writing "papayas" on the inside of his left arm to make sure he didn't forget. Lottie was hitting the tantrum stage early and refused to eat anything but the (in his opinion) revolting fruit. They had to slice up the papaya and put it in a bowl with other foods to get her to even consider eating them, and even then it was hit and miss. The horrifying hit at their house right now was papaya and cooked broccoli, much to the Doctor's chagrin. He figured that Clara had to have been feeling dreadful to leave work early _and_ to miss an opportunity to take Lottie to the supermarket, which was one of her favorite things to do because it was Lottie's favorite thing to do. The child got ecstatic at the mere sight of the supermarket and giggled practically the entire shopping trip. They were still unsure as to why, but they went with it.

He quickly bypassed Charlotte's and Rose's messages, finding Clara's second one. There was no greeting to this one, only Clara's quick words and off-tone.

"Okay, so, you're not at the hospital, which means you're definitely Christmas shopping. You are, aren't you? I'm really thinking you need an intervention. But before I drag you kicking and screaming to a shopaholics meeting…you need to call me back. Please. Okay, bye. Love you."

His worry was increasing. How did she know he wasn't at the hospital? He listened to Charlotte's next, shutting his locker and shifting towards the door in his unease.

"Hello Smithy-Smith. Great weather today, right? So listen. Your wife. You know I love her dearly—probably almost as much as you do; we can argue about that later—but she's being an idiot. She's giving me _the look_ right now all because I told her to go home. I'm smiling and pretending to be on the phone with a pilot, but really I'm calling you because the woman looks ill and refuses to go home and—oh, damn, hold on. Sunny shits, she's coming over. Gotta go!"

He subconsciously knew something wasn't right as he played Rose's message. She was in Barcelona with Martha Jones and Donna Noble on some girls' trip, so he wasn't sure why she was phoning him even once, much less four times. Suddenly, he was practically jogging down the hallways, darting left and right to avoid staff and patients, and he didn't know why.

"Where are you? Go back to the hospital. If I know Clara she's trying not to worry you, and if I know my husband he hasn't thought to leave you a voicemail. So I'll be the one to say it: go! Last I heard she was admitted to Oliver Ward at King's but I think they were moving her to Nightingale."

He felt the steady falling of his heart first and then the sting of the wind in his eyes as he ran. He hit a woman by accident as he sprinted, but he didn't stop to say a word to her. His entire mind had narrowed in on one simple need: to find Clara. He couldn't think much else as he pushed past people and made his way to Oliver Ward. Of course she'd had them take her to King's and of course that's how she'd known he wasn't there. The idea that he hadn't answered his phone, so she thought she'd just come to him, only to realize he wasn't there after all made him heartsick. A few casual work acquaintances greeted him as he barreled down the hallways in Oliver Ward, almost crashing right into the front attendant.

He was severely out of breath and he hadn't noticed it until he attempted to speak. He set his hands on his knees and bent over slightly, gasping and trying to push out the words.

"Clara's at Nightingale, Dr. Smith." The man said. The Doctor didn't know him but he didn't pause to figure out how he knew who he was (Clara had probably said _wait for a man who's running and that's probably my husband_), he just turned and headed towards the birthing centre.

He didn't have to find any assistance there, as he was immediately ambushed by Rory, who was currently on the phone with someone. He set a warm hand on the Doctor's shoulder as he spoke. The Doctor took the moment to catch his breath, staring around him at the familiar room. The pastel colored walls felt chalky and thick, and he found it more difficult to breathe here than before. He'd never felt anything but happiness standing inside the cotton candy walls because this is where Lottie was born, and that was one of the happiest days of his life. But suddenly he was remembering a fact he'd long forgotten: life was always trying to keep a natural balance. For every good there must be equal bad. But his family didn't deserve it.

"Yes, I know—Amy, I already—okay. Yes. I promise I will. He's right here." Rory locked eyes with the Doctor, appraising him. The Doctor knew Amy had asked how he was. "I don't know. He literally just ran through and I need to talk to him. Mmhmm. Yeah. I mean—love you too."

The best thing about Rory, and what made him such a great nurse, was that he was good in a crisis. He was calm and collected and his empathetic nature helped him to know what everyone needed. So he knew that the Doctor just needed Clara. He wrapped an arm around his shoulder—which felt way too much like condolences for the Doctor's liking—and then led him down the short hallways. When he was led to the high-dependency unit, he thought he might pass out. She was fine last night. He'd held her and they'd talked about—what had they talked about? In his panic he couldn't remember, and the blurring walls were too happy, and he felt like someone was crumpling up his insides. Blackpool. They'd talked about going to Blackpool. To see Dave. Before Clara was too far along to travel. Before—Christ.

He didn't know if he was relieved or irritated to see his brother walking from the HDU, talking quietly to Clara's current attending doctor. He'd figured Martha—Clara's primary obstetrician—would have phoned him had anything gone wrong while she was out of the country, but despite how skilled of an obstetrician he knew his brother was, it was somehow so wrong to him that he was here before he was. Petty long-time sibling rivalry, but upsetting nonetheless.

As the two drew nearer, he could make out bits of their conversation.

"—I know. It's awful." Ten muttered, his eyes on Clara's chart. Her attending was staring down at it as well.

"I hope her husband shows up before the ultrasound. She shouldn't have to deal with that alone." The attending replied.

Ten's eyes locked briefly with the Doctor's. If he saw the horror and panic in his brother's eyes, he didn't make any move to approach him.

"That's her husband. That's my brother." He told the man. The attending glanced up briefly towards the Doctor and then nodded.

"Good. If you don't mind to talk to him, I'll hurry and go get the technician."

"Of course."

Rory's pager went off a moment later. He gave the Doctor a compassionate hug before hurrying off, his face twisted with sorrow. The Doctor walked over to Ten, trying so hard not to look at his expression, because he was afraid of what he might see. But Ten was his older brother and he found himself looking up at him almost desperately, like he was pleading with him to make everything better. Ten never had been able to do that—not that he hadn't tried—and the Doctor knew he couldn't now.

He was still holding the shopping bag. With Lottie's toys and Ellabell's socks. It all felt so meaningless then.

"What's going on?" He begged his brother. He heard his own voice crack and divide, like splitting leather.

Ten grasped his brother's shoulders. "Doctor, take a deep breath. You've got that look on your face like you're about to start slamming your fists into the wall."

He shrugged out of his brother's grasps. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down! Tell me what's wrong! That's _my_ wife, that's _my_ baby!"

Ten peered at him harshly, ignoring his outburst. "You can react in childish ways. I'm warning you not to, for Clara's sake."

The warning couldn't be heeded because the Doctor was using all his self-control to keep from hitting everyone in his sight. He was here and Clara was in there and what the hell was going on? Ten peered at him for a tense thirty-seconds, probably waiting for the slightly hysterical look to fade from his eyes. The Doctor didn't think it went anywhere, but he began talking a moment later, his words calm and spaced.

"Clara's in premature labor. She called Martha a couple of hours ago complaining about contractions, and she thought they were just Braxton Hicks, but then she timed them and they were too close together and too regular. So Martha called me and told me to go check on her, and her cervix was already opening, so we got her to A&E and they've put her up here."

He found himself nodding almost maniacally. He took a deep breath and shifted his weight from foot to foot, anxious to hurry and see her. He couldn't assess the damage until he saw her face. That was the way it'd always been. If Clara was upset, things were okay. But if she was refusing to cry, something had been lost forever.

"Okay." He finally said, his voice teetering. He couldn't think of anything in the world to say then but: _please don't let them take her from us too. _He didn't even know what it meant, but it was all he could think. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, wincing angrily as he tried to figure out what to do. He took a shaking breath. "Okay." He repeated. Finally he regained some knowledge. "So have they given her magnesium sulfate? How is she responding?"

Ten nodded back towards the room. "Dr. Greene did almost immediately. I've been with her the entire time and she says she hasn't had any contractions in at least forty minutes, which is good. Dr. Greene said her cervix hasn't opened further, which is also good. But we've got to do an ultrasound right away. Dr. Greene's on his way to get a technician."

He immediately felt his sorrow lifting slightly, but it didn't get very far. Something was holding it back.

"Okay, so she just needs to stay on bed rest until she's at least thirty-two weeks. That's it. Right? Then the survival rate goes up substantially. What's it—I mean, what's it for twenty-six weeks?"

He was asking a hard question because he suddenly realized that there was a harder one that needed asking, one he didn't even want to think about. There was something else wrong, something heavier, something that he didn't want to know. But because Ten was his brother, he caught the snag in his voice on the words _right away. _

"Around fifty percent." He admitted. But the Doctor was focusing on the way Ten's eyes could no longer meet his own.

"What did you mean_ right away?" _He demanded. "Why did you say it like that?"

He was abruptly six again, and Ten was nine, and he was holding his brother's blood-spattered face against his chest. The Doctor could taste the dry cotton of his t-shirt and feel the jerking of his stomach as he hyperventilated. Ten had hidden his brother's face after the shots were fired, shielding him from a sight that he himself would never forget. He had been cursed with being old enough to remember and old enough to understand. The Doctor felt privately that he'd never forgiven him for being six, for being young enough to forget some of it, but despite that secret grudge he looked now like he wanted to reach up and hide the Doctor's face against him once more. But the Doctor didn't want to hide.

"No." He said firmly. He nodded, as if affirming his own statement to be true. "Don't look at me like that. Don't you dare."

Ten held his gaze. "We couldn't find a heartbeat. Dr. Greene tried and I did too."

The childish reaction was quick and automatic. "Maybe you both weren't using the stethoscope correctly."

Ten took a deep breath. "Doctor, I'm really sorry. He's going to do an ultrasound, of course, but…I don't know. It's usually easy to hear it with a stethoscope at twenty-six weeks. Intrauterine deaths happen and there's not much—"

He felt like he couldn't breathe. He touched his throat and tried to understand why he suddenly felt like some heavy weight had fallen on top of his chest. "Stop. Please. Just…you don't know. You don't. She isn't—you don't know." He was shaking. "Why didn't you track me down? Why was I the last bloody person in our social circle to know about this?!"

Anger from grief was senseless. He suddenly wanted very much to throttle the man in front of him.

"You didn't pick up your phone! No one knew where you were!"

It was the part of him that Ellie had influenced so deeply that spoke next. He couldn't stop himself.

"Then you fucking _come and find me_!" He screamed at his brother. The words echoed down the empty hallway. "That's what family does!"

Ten's expression held firm, but the Doctor could see something wavering. It must have been whatever natural instinct drove him to protect his brother on that day instead of protecting himself.

"I'm so, so, s_o_ sorry, Doctor." Ten whispered. "I know how much you wanted her."

He felt his eyes burning. "I still want her. And you're wrong, because I just felt her kick last night. She was kicking when I sang—she always does that. She does. So she can't be dead."

Dead was something reserved to describe their parents. Whenever he heard the word dead, they're who he thought of, because they'd been dead even before they'd put the mouths of those guns inside their own. Even now, after Ellie had been dead for over ten years, he didn't think of her as truly dead. It felt wrong, like she was still alive out there somewhere. But his parents were dead. They were gone. And his baby wasn't, because she was moving about right underneath his hand just last night, and she couldn't just die. She couldn't just disappear. Where would she go? Where did any of them go?

Ten was full of sorrow and pity and that was all. No hope. He touched the Doctor's shoulder lightly.

"I have to get back to my office. Go see her, Doctor. Clara hasn't cried once. Make sure she understands what's going on. Dr. Greene tried to explain but I'm not sure if she realizes that she'll have to give birth to her anyway. I don't think any of it has sunk in and I want her to be as prepared as possible for whatever happens next."

He had to stand outside the door for a full minute as he tried to get a hold of himself. He knew Clara had most likely heard him screaming at his brother, distraught and heartbroken, but he didn't want her to have to see it too. He breathed deeply through his mouth, halfway bent over, until he felt like he could keep his distress at least partially contained. And then he opened the door slowly and walked in.

The curtains were pulled, blocking almost all of the sunlight from the otherwise dark room. The other bed lied unoccupied. Clara was curled up onto her side, her entire body tucked protectively around Lottie's sleeping frame. Clara's IVs were tangled and draped awkwardly over her side, but if the pull troubled her, she made no move to fix it. She hadn't even lifted her head or made a move to turn when the door shut behind the Doctor, and that terrified him so deeply that he couldn't even move. It had all suddenly gotten very real.

He walked slowly around the bed so he could see her face, so he could figure out how bad all of this was. She was peering unseeingly at the sheets until he was in front of her, and then her eyes found his.

"Lottie needs to go home. I don't want her to have to see any more of this." She said quietly. She made no move to speak about what was going on. She was emotionless and it terrified him.

The Doctor turned his focus to his daughter, who was sleeping with her face pressed against Clara's hospital gown, her chubby hands resting on the swell of her mother's stomach. Like she was protecting them all from something she couldn't yet understand but could sense. The Doctor reached down and brushed away a strand of light brown hair that was stuck to her long eyelashes, his throat suddenly narrower than he could handle. He thought about the toys in his bag. The socks. The Christmases he wanted to give the baby yet to be born. The Christmases he worried would be tainted somehow for Lottie after this. The Christmases Clara might always dread.

"Charlotte will stay with her tonight, I'm sure." He told Clara. Because he couldn't tell her what he needed to. He couldn't tell her how sorry he was.

Clara nodded, but she made no effort to call her friend and neither did the Doctor. He could tell by the protective curve of her spine that she didn't want Lottie even a foot away from her right now.

"Why didn't you call Charlotte when you couldn't get me?" He asked her softly. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, his eyes on Clara's disturbingly blank face. "I can't think of the last time you were willingly alone with Ten."

She was shivering. The Doctor didn't know if it was from coldness in the air or coldness in her heart. Regardless, he straightened the blankets over both her and Lottie and pulled his white medical coat off, draping it over her gently. She lifted her right arm and gathered a handful of the fabric, pulling it up to her chin. She pressed her face into it and inhaled, letting out an unsteady breath. She didn't say anything for a few moments. She just hid her face into his coat. He reached over and set a hand on her hair, unable to do anything else. And that was what hurt him the most about this. He couldn't do anything else.

"I didn't want Charlotte," she finally admitted thickly, lowering his coat. Her eyes were shining with tears and the corners of her mouth were quivering. "I didn't want anyone. I wanted you. I wanted—I wanted to press my face into this coat and I wanted you to make it better."

He knew it would upset her, but he was selfish. He pulled his hand from her hair and touched the side of her stomach. He pressed gently, like he normally did, waiting to feel the responding nudge. He knew then that he would always be waiting to feel that gentle stirring. No matter what happened there would always be a tiny part of him suspended in this moment, choking on grief and desperation. _Not us. This happens to people, but not us. _He was a selfish man and always had been.

He kept his hand there for a long time. He had never felt waiting like this. When his wrist cramped, he pursed his lips as his eyes sought out Clara's. Hers were so vulnerable and terrified that he felt himself breaking. The corners of his mouth were pulling down as he fought back tears.

"I bought her candy-cane socks." He whispered. "So she can't be dead."

There was no sense to that logic, but he believed it. He immediately regretted saying that word, because when Clara heard it, she turned her eyes from him like he'd physically struck her. He moved his hands down slightly, covering Lottie's tiny hands, but he didn't have the heart to pull them off her mother's belly. Instead he held them in his and leaned over her, pressing his face against the top of Clara's head. It was the smell of her that weakened him.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered. He broke as soon as he admitted it. His knew his tears were fast-coming. "I'm so sorry for not being here. I hate myself. I'm so incredibly sorry."

He felt her hand on his shoulder, reaching for him. He moved closer to them and pulled Lottie gently onto his chest, sliding over and opening his arm for Clara. The pillow was flat and hard and she fell against him like she couldn't hold herself up any longer. His coat was still draped over her shoulders and tucked underneath her chin. She was taking measured breaths.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't leave earlier because I didn't want to miss more work. Can you believe that? I convinced myself that everything was fine and it wasn't. It isn't. I made the mistake mothers everywhere have nightmares about making. I should have known better. I did this. This is my fault. It's my body and I—" she stopped. She pressed her face back into his coat and whimpered.

He wanted to comfort her; he wanted to say so many things. But he could hardly breathe. The terror of it all was suffocating him.

"It's not your fault," he assured her, but then he was tearing up and he couldn't stop it no matter how hard he tried. He gripped Lottie close with one arm, panicked because he couldn't help but feel like he was cursed somehow, like everyone he loved was going to be taken from him somehow. By death, by sorrow, by something dark in the shadows. Not his children. Not Lottie. Not Ellabell. Not his family. They hadn't built it to be broken. They'd built it to watch it grow.

His tears destroyed some secret resolve in Clara.

"Please don't cry," she pleaded, her voice wavering. "Please don't, it terrifies me. I'm so scared, Doctor. I'm so scared."

He nodded and hugged her to his side. He took a shuddering breath, trying his hardest to quell his tears. But he was inconsolable. It was true that everything had changed once he'd had children. He'd no longer understood how he had lived without them. And he was realizing that everything he gained could be taken just as easily. Clara's guilt was impossibly heavy as well, because he understood how much this must hurt her, how much it must hurt her more than it hurt him. He knew that, if this baby really were gone, there would be nothing he could say to convince her that it wasn't somehow her fault.

Perhaps it was because Tara had been whispering it in his ear for so many years, but he couldn't help but wonder then if this was his break. She made him subconsciously fear a moment of so much pain that he would be broken and lost with no hope of repair. She tried to make him strong by warning him of his predisposition to weakness, but all she did was make him liable to crumble.

Seeing the confusion on his daughter's face when she woke up and glanced at him was almost as terrible as everything else. She furrowed her eyebrows, peering at his frown intently, sensing his sadness even if she didn't understand it. He forced a smile on his face and kissed her head, smiling genuinely when she latched onto him with a cry of delight.

"Daddy here!" She informed them all with joy, her little arms gripping onto his chest tightly.

He settled his palm on the back of her head and kissed her again, his other hand holding her close to him. He knew it then. He knew that he would always be there. It didn't matter what Tara said. There was no sadness deep enough to make him do to his children what his parents had done to theirs.

"Lottie, how would you feel about playing with Charlie tonight?" He asked her carefully. She was right at the peak of her separation anxiety stage, but she took to Charlotte best.

"Charlie?" She asked the Doctor. When he lifted his head and peered down at her, he saw she was looking at her mother. She seemed to be thinking hard about the proposition.

"Yeah. You can play with Charlie and then Mummy and Daddy will see you when you wake up." He tried. He didn't know if she'd understand what he was saying, but he knew Clara had been right. She didn't need to be here.

Her grip tightened fiercely.

"No."

_No_ was her new favorite word and the Doctor was already sick of hearing it. He stroked her hair back and met eyes with Clara. Hers were misty and she looked on the brink of falling apart. Her hands were spread out over her own stomach and he knew she was waiting to feel something.

"It'd be so fun, Lottie," he encouraged, turning his eyes back to her. "Charlie will give you some chocolate pudding."

She lifted her head and looked at him almost skeptically.

"Cho-late?"

"A little bit." He promised.

He wasn't sure if she was following, but she brightened at the mention of chocolate. She'd only had it once in the form of Charlotte's famous pudding, but she loved to touch the chocolate bars at the supermarket. Something about them thrilled her.

Lottie still had her gaze on her mother. She reached out towards her, swatting at her forearm to get her attention.

"Mummy," she cooed. When Clara smiled at her, she beamed back. "Cho-late."

Clara laughed weakly. "That's right, Lottie. Charlie's going to give you some chocolate and you'll have a lot of fun."

Lottie's face was shadowed with doubt again. She clasped back onto her father tightly, her eyes filling with tears.

"No Charlie." She insisted. She began sobbing, choking out "mummy" and "daddy" over and over again between cries, her face pressed into the Doctor's shirt.

The Doctor was about thirty seconds from latching onto Lottie and crying too. When he met Clara's eyes again, he could tell she felt the same.

They were out of time to decide what to do about Lottie, because Dr. Greene and a ultrasound technician knocked softly and entered the room then. It was clear to the Doctor that Dr. Greene thought it was too late, that this was a waste of their time. Dr. Greene touched Clara's leg gently, but she yanked it back from him, her distress disappearing again behind the curtain she had up for everyone but the Doctor.

He slid off the bed with Lottie. Clara's hands were quivering as she lifted up her gown, and he wanted to comfort her so badly. He began to reach out to her, but she shrunk away from him.

"I can't. Please." She whispered to him.

She was hanging on by a thin thread and he understood that, because he was as well. He gently cradled Lottie's head to his shoulder to keep her from seeing anything that was going on. She would normally be squirming and trying to watch intently, but he figured she was still thinking she'd have to leave her parents, because she clung to the Doctor with a death grip even now. He stared at the swell of her stomach, the same stomach he'd kissed just last night and crooned Johnny Cash songs to for Clara's amusement, and found that he couldn't believe it. There was no way his own child had died without him feeling something the minute it happened. His heart would have broken. He would have known, he would have felt the loss.

He didn't even realize he was crying until he saw Dr. Greene shoot him a stern look. Lottie lifted her head and leaned back, peering up at him with a frown. She touched his cheeks with her small hands and frowned.

"Daddy sad." She whispered, her voice equal parts curious and sad. She hugged his neck tightly, her small, beginning effort at comforting. He rubbed her back and kissed her head, and he left his face pressed there, hidden in her fine, soft hair, because he couldn't watch what was happening. He couldn't see it. He couldn't be strong like Clara needed him to be and maybe that was the worst thing he'd ever done.

His heart was heavy and soaked and breathing was becoming difficult again. He wanted to press his fingers into his ears because waiting to hear something that might not come was worse than blocking it all out. He knew Clara didn't want to cry in front of Dr. Greene or the technician. He knew she didn't want to cry in front of Lottie. But he lifted his head and took one look at her face—crumpled and devastated despite her best efforts—and he had to reach for her. He reached for her hand, lying pale and fragile at her side, and wrapped his fingers carefully around it. She squeezed his hand back, gripping onto him like he was holding her head above water. Her other hand was gripping tightly to his coat, still tucked underneath her chin and draped over her torso, like some sort of security blanket offering promises he himself couldn't see through.

He almost dropped Lottie in paralyzing relief when the familiar whooshing of the heartbeat filled the room. He quickly tightened his grip on her, shifting her over onto his hip so he could peer at the screen, and he let out something between a cry of joy and a sob as he saw the vitals on the monitor. He turned down to look at Clara. She'd shut her eyes, exhaling softly in relief. She whispered a quiet thank you, but he wasn't sure who to. He just knew that he'd never heard anyone sound so relieved or desperately grateful in his entire life.

The Doctor pressed his face back into Lottie's hair and squeezed Clara's hand tightly, his heart still pounding away.

"Why wasn't she moving?" Clara asked Dr. Greene, her voice still thick. "I tried everything and she wouldn't move. And why couldn't you find it before?"

The Doctor looked up at Dr. Greene, his own brain buzzing with similar questions. Dr. Greene turned to look at Clara as he replied.

"Babies don't move much if at all during labor." He explained. "And I don't know. I listened for such a long time. You've got an anterior placenta and she's bradycardic, which may have something to do with it, but I don't think we should be worried about the heart rate yet. Periodic bouts of bradycardia are fine as long as it returns to normal soon. Her measurements are great and she's developing well. But you'll have to be on strict bed rest for the rest of the pregnancy, and even then there's no way to know how long you can prolong it. If we can keep her from being born for at least three more weeks she'll be so much better off. We just have to monitor you closely. The magnesium sulfate has slowed your labor down for now, but we'll keep you here for two more days and keep you on a continuous, smaller dose just to make sure. Once you're home, you have to rest. As in, you can only get up to go to the loo. You have to stay hydrated as well." He turned back to the screen and stared at it for a moment, shaking his head almost in disbelief. "There's your miracle for this lifetime. Your brother tells me that you two deserve it."

The technician and Dr. Greene left. The Doctor took the tea set from the shopping bag he'd dropped onto the floor and set it up for Lottie at the foot of the bed. She shrieked in happiness and the Doctor lifted her up, setting her right in the midst of the colorful, heavy-duty miniature mugs and saucers as he climbed up onto the bed with Clara again, this time hugging her close and pressing kisses into her hair. She clutched his shoulders tightly and exhaled shakily.

"What if I have to give birth soon?" She mumbled into his shirt. "What if we lose her anyway?"

He shook his head firmly. "We won't. Ten said your cervix stopped opening and the contractions have stopped. Haven't they?"

He leaned back and peered at her in concern. It wouldn't be unlike her to bear the pain of contractions without anyone noticing. She was still pale and drawn, but she offered him a shadow of a smile.

"They've stopped." She confirmed.

He felt his heart lighten. "Good. So it's going to be okay. All right? I promise. I do."

He kissed her forehead and glanced down at Lottie. He watched her offer her stuffed badger a sip of tea, gently tipping the cup back. He smiled and turned back to Clara once he was content that his daughter was safe and happy. Clara was looking at him with that look he sometimes saw her give him. The one that communicated very clearly that she trusted him with everything.

The Doctor set his hands on her stomach and let out another relieved breath.

"God." He said quietly. She set her hands over his and caressed the backs of his hands with her thumbs.

"Today has been a nightmare." She agreed. "Almost everything I've feared during this pregnancy has happened or almost happened and I can't help but blame myself. And Martha."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Martha? She had no idea you'd go into premature labor."

Clara nodded. "I know that. I don't blame her for not being here. I blame her for calling Ten. I made it very clear to her that I did not want his head anywhere near between my legs—which was why she has always been my obstetrician and not Ten—and what does she do? Calls him so he can check my sodding cervix. I should just put a sign on my—" Clara stopped and glanced down at Lottie, who was still having tea with Coda. The child had a bad habit of repeating words later that she picked up when no one thought she was actually listening. "—_lady parts_ that says 'John Smith was here', seeing as though this makes the second John Smith whose fingers have—"

The Doctor grimaced and placed his hand over her mouth. "I don't want to hear about my brother's fingers being anywhere near or inside you, thank you though. I'm already feeling punchy towards him. His pessimistic attitude and potentially incompetent stethoscope skills caused most of this."

Clara's expression twisted with guilt at that. "No, it's my fault. I've been overworking myself. I always think I can do so much more than I can and this baby's suffering because of it. Maybe I'm not fit to be a mother."

The Doctor shook his head. "If you're not fit to be a mother, Clara, no one is. Trust me when I say I know what unfit mothers are like. I know how they treat their children. And you are not one."

She opened her mouth to say something else, but abruptly she stopped, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. Her expression went from shock to joy in no time at all. She grabbed his hands gently and moved them back to her stomach, pressing down lightly. The Doctor felt a familiar, returning nudge, gentle and soft, but there. Real. He laughed giddily and locked eyes with Clara, pleased when she laughed in return. He sat up and moved down, leaning over Clara so he could press a kiss to the spot he'd last felt the nudge. He kept his cheek pressed against her soft skin for a moment, quietly crooning a few lines to the baby, until he felt another movement. He had never been more relieved to feel something in his entire life.

"Lottie, come here. Come feel Ellabell." He told the toddler. She dropped her cups and crawled towards them. The Doctor tugged her up into his lap and helped guide her hand to the spot he'd just kissed. He applied slight pressure and laughed at the joyous giggle Lottie gave when she felt the baby move underneath her hand.

"That's your little sister."

Lottie looked up at her father and smiled. But she soon lost interest in her mother's stomach and tugged on the Doctor's arm and Clara's hand.

"Tea!" She urged.

The four sat on the bed and played pretend with the tea set, stopping only when the nurses came in and administered more medicine to Clara. Charlotte came a little later with Amy and the two took Lottie back to Charlotte's house for the night, after about half an hour of persuading her that she'd have much more fun there than at the hospital. The Doctor left for an hour to run home and get their things, but once he got back, he slept beside Clara all night despite the nurses' scolding. They'd narrowly escaped something traumatic together and he wanted her as close as possible.

She admitted something to him halfway through the night, after the nurses came in to check on her for the fifth time.

"I needed my mum today more than I ever have before. I don't really…have anyone who can understand what this feels like. None of my friends have had children except Rose—but whenever I call her she gets concerned and calls Ten—and Amy's only been pregnant for fifteen weeks and Mrs. Maitland's dead too and Tara hates me and has never had children herself in the first place and all the females in my family are on my mum's side and don't really talk to us much anymore and my dad's mum doesn't remember who I am half the time and I just—I had no idea what to do. I don't know what I'm doing still." She stopped and sat up slightly, propping herself up on her elbow and peering down at the Doctor with horrified eyes. "I could have easily ignored my pain and then I would have given birth to her and she'd very likely be dead. I thought—with us starting a family so late—that most of my girlfriends would already be mums, or that I would have figured it all out. But I'm almost twenty-eight and I feel like I'm just as clueless about all of this as I would have been had we had children at eighteen. I just wish…I don't know. I wish one of us had a mother, is all. I wish I had my mother. I need her." Her voice shook. "I need her so much."

He could have offered her a million suggestions—Charlotte's mum, Charlotte's sister, Rose's mum—but he knew that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted something she couldn't ever have again, no matter how much she needed it, and all he could do for that was hold her. He couldn't imagine how terrifying and lonely it must have been at times to do this without female guidance.

"I know." He told her. "I know how much you miss her." Her crying was soft and secret, hidden into his coat still resting on her chest. He stroked her hair back, feeling the weight of everything that could have happened today on his chest. He took a shaking breath around it and pressed his face against the crown of her head. "I know, Clara."

But he didn't. Not really. And the knowledge that he couldn't ever fully understand hurt him, too.

"I'm going to take care of you." He whispered. He pulled her closer and straightened her tangled IV lines so they wouldn't pull painfully. Her body shook gently as she wept. "I won't ever leave you alone. Whatever happens, it'll happen to both of us, and we'll carry it together. I meant that ten years ago and I mean it now."

But she already knew that. He thought about Ellie then, about all that made her such an amazing mother and all the things she'd ever told him. What would Ellie have told her daughter today? What might she have said about the knowledge Clara now carried, the knowledge that everything she loved could abruptly disappear just as easily inside of her as it could outside in the world? That there was really no way to protect those you loved, no matter how close to you they were?

He'd never believed in a traditional afterlife of any sort, but he could have sworn Ellie whispered the words to him in that moment. They made no sense to him but he said them anyway.

"Nothing's ever lost for good. Everything is in everything. There's so much of your mother in you, in Lottie, in this baby. Your mum would want you to remember that. That the things and the people you love have a way of always finding you again."

Clara looked up at him. He could see the tears sparkling on her cheeks, a broken testament to her vulnerability. "And everything works out in the end?"

He smiled gently and held her face between his hands, rubbing his thumbs softly over the wet trails her tears left.

"Everything works out beautifully in the end." He promised. "You'll see."

He didn't know what the future held, and sometimes he couldn't even remember what the past had either. But he did know that he would never leave Clara's side and that maybe that was enough to mend anything.


	8. Drive On

**A/n:** I'm almost caught up with everything in my life, so hooray for that! I'll be finishing up review replying tomorrow. Thanks once again and I hope you enjoy :)

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_young love, innocent crimes/dubious vows, and no way, jose! (cuervo)_

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When they passed the same crumbled, wooden fence for the third time, Clara pulled her feet from the dash and straightened, turning to look at the Doctor.

"We're lost." She said firmly.

He sputtered, looking at her like the mere idea of that was preposterous.

"Lost?" He scoffed. "We're not _lost_. We're…taking the scenic route. Isn't it beautiful?" He rolled down the window and leaned out, obviously intending to take a staged deep breath of clean air. Unfortunately for him, the road they were on was a dirt road. He breathed in dust and dirt and began coughing, almost swerving off the road in his haste to roll the window back up.

"We're so lost you don't even remember that we're lost. We've passed these same places so much that I bet you're starting to think they're right." She accused him.

He shot a quick, nervous glance her way, obviously thinking she was looking out the window. She raised an eyebrow at him when they locked eyes.

He reached forward and patted the GPS.

"Tardis will get us there." He reassured her.

The cursed GPS was one of the first to hit the market and Tara had purchased it for her directionally challenged foster son pretty quickly. The Doctor was rather attached to it, insisting that _Tara's GPS _was always right. His explosive fight with her six months prior hadn't lessened his trust in it. He'd even named it. Clara was starting to feel an animosity between herself and the gadget. This animosity had started during their first month on the road when it almost got them killed in a pub in Wales, and it was steadily growing. Especially considering the fact that it had them lost for the millionth time. In the United States. In the state of Texas to be specific, which was ridiculously huge and apparently full of roads not even programmed in the GPS maps.

"Before or after I hit menopause?" She asked.

He reached forward, smacking the side of the GPS when the signal began fizzing out again. He shot a distracted look at Clara.

"That depends. I'd have to check your estrogen levels." Another hard smack to the side of the GPS sent it flying into Clara's lap. She had a brief fantasy that consisted of her rolling down her window and throwing the sodding thing out into the dry grass. But instead she placed it back on the stand. After a few more moments of aimless driving, he stopped and did a U-turn.

"Let's try tracing back. That always works." He said.

"Doooooctooooor," she whined. "I'm on my last pair of clean knickers. I _need_ a launderette. Or even a sink and a bar of soap, at this point I'm not picky."

He shot her a mischievous grin, reaching over and settling his hand on her thigh. He slid it up her leg, giving the edge of her underwear a tug.

"So go without." He told her with a cheeky grin. "What's the problem?"

Ordinarily she'd led his hand roam freely, but she was beginning to get cross with him. Two days on bottled water and peanuts could do that to a person. Not to mention the fact that she hadn't washed her hair in three days. She grabbed his hand and moved it back to his own thigh, earning her a confused look.

"The _problem_ is that you refuse to admit we're lost and your stupid GPS has no idea where we are." She clarified. "And the only radio station that comes in out here is that old country western station that keeps playing that fire song by that bloke over and over again."

He shot her a horrified look. "_That bloke_?" He demanded. "_Fire song? _Clara, that bloke happens to be Johnny Cash. He's one of the most influential musicians of the 20th century. And that song is 'Ring of Fire', which was the most popular song of his career."

She shrugged and slid down further in the seat, returning her feet to the dash and shifting slightly to her left. She never before thought she'd sit for so long that her bottom actually went _numb_, but it was happening. Far too frequently. She looked out the windows and stared at the billows of dirt the tires of the borrowed car stirred up. Dirt roads sucked, but at least she didn't panic each time she woke up and realized they were driving on the wrong song of the road. One laners were good. One laners were safe.

She glanced back at the Doctor, who was still looking at her like she'd suddenly morphed into a completely different person.

"And it's terrible. Excuse me for not taking a liking to country western music as a child. Why do you know all that anyway?"

He turned his gaze back forward.

"My dad." He said simply. "When he still listened to music. And talked to me."

Casual admissions like that always made her stomach drop. She reached over and set her hand on his thigh this time, gently stroking the skin below the edge of his shorts. He shot her a smile, most likely to reassure her that he was okay.

"And it isn't _terrible_." He continued, probably eager to bury his last comment.

She pretended to gag. "It is, and if I hear it one more time, I'm going to rip the stereo out of the car with my bare hands."

He waggled his finger at her. "You'd better keep your voice down. Talking like that here will get you killed, and I don't know if I'll defend you."

She made a show of looking around her at the barren landscape, completely devoid of buildings, much less people. "Oh, yeah, I've got to keep to my voice down so all these people don't hear me."

He reached over beside him and lifted the half-empty bag of peanuts. He held it out towards her.

"Hungry?"

She couldn't help it. Her patience snapped.

"I _am_ hungry but I want actual, proper food! Like…like…" she stopped and turned to the Doctor quizzically. "What _do_ people eat here?"

He looked at her seriously. "They only eat liver. Cow livers, chicken livers, lamb livers. Sometimes the occasional criminal's. The death penalty, you know."

She blinked at him. "Funny. You're cute."

He glanced at her again, his face completely sincere. "I'm not joking, Clara. I meant to tell you. They fry them whole."

She shifted uneasily in her seat, turning to peer critically out the window at the landscape, as if she'd see some signs if that were true. She looked back at him, the corners of her mouth turned down into a frown. "Nuh-uh. No way."

He nodded earnestly, his eyes wide. "Yes way. And do you know what they dip it in?"

She peered at him uncertainly, her stomach churning with disgust. "What?"

He leaned closer to her, leaving only his left hand on the steering wheel. He delivered his next words right into her ear.

"The blood of those who dislike country western music," he whispered.

She groaned. "Ugh!" She smacked his shoulder lightly, crossing her arms and glaring out the window. He was roaring with laughter.

"You believed me. You honestly believed me!" He boasted. "Livers. You believed that an entire state only ate livers. For every meal. Fried."

She looked at him testily. "I did not believe you. I was just seeing how far you'd take it."

He started laughing again. Clara glared and shifted towards the door, away from him.

"I should have just gone to Ireland." She muttered underneath her breath. "_Alone_."

He reached up and grabbed his heart, his face crumpling with exaggerated pain.

"Ouch. That hurts, Clara. That hurts me deeply. I mean, Ireland?" He laughed at his own words and then looked at Clara when she didn't laugh in return. He frowned. "Wait, are you actually angry?"

The GPS spoke at the wrong moment. The mechanic, female voice informed them to "take a U-turn when possible". For the fourth time. They'd been on this same stretch of dirt road all day long. Clara watched in disbelief as the Doctor listened, fully trusting the piece of shit, and then began turning the car.

She crossed her arms. She had to break the news to him sooner or later, and now was best. "Yes, I am angry. But not at you." She pointed accusingly at the GPS. "At this FUC—"

"Don't curse at Tardis!" He shrieked hurriedly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Listen. Me and your GPS. We cannot cohabit. That means it's either her or me."

"What do you mean?" He asked, his voice injured.

She tried to take a calming breath, but it didn't work. She reached forward and snatched the GPS off the stand and began whacking it against the dash. "THIS—SODDING—PIECE—OF—ABSOLUTE—SHIT—"

The car swerved violently to the left as the Doctor tried to grab his GPS from her hands.

"Clara! Clara! Violence never solved anything!" He yelled desperately, his hand working to pry her fingers off his GPS.

"Turn around when possible. At the next available location, make a U-turn. Turn around when possible. At the next available location, make a U-turn." The GPS kept repeating. Clara wished it had a neck that she could wring.

The Doctor cradled the GPS to his chest once he got it free from Clara's hands. He stared at her in fear.

"I feel like you have some pent up aggression that we need to talk about." He said breathlessly.

She unbuckled her seatbelt in one quick motion and dove over the Doctor's lap, grabbing the bag of peanuts from the other side. She shook it at him.

"This is my pent up aggression!" She told him. "I think these peanuts are slowly killing me. My pee SMELLS LIKE PEANUTS!"

He looked at her in concern. "Really? Is it very concentrated? I'm not sure that's normal."

She stared blankly at him for a moment, her rage and frustration burning in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes went from the barren landscape to the bag of cursed peanuts to the Doctor's bare chest and the tiny beads of sweat pooling in the dip between his collarbones to his shorts and his hands and—

"Pull over." She ordered.

He looked at her skeptically. "You're not going to make me smell it, are you? I don't know if I love anyone that much."

Her skin was burning up. She lifted her hair up off her neck and gathered her dress up at her waist, hoping some of the air hitting her bare legs would counteract the hot sun and her frustration.

"Just pull over." She repeated through gritted teeth.

He complied with her request, pulling over to the side of the road and putting the car in park. Clara heard the GPS begin its incessant refrain (_please make a U-turn whenever possible, take a U-turn in approximately point three miles_) but she didn't care. She reached over and ripped it from his grasp, throwing it into the backseat. His protests were halted when she climbed over the middle console and slid into his lap with some trouble. She yanked her dress up over her head—sighing in relief at the rush of cold air hitting her bare back from the air vents, and then fumbled around beside the bottom of the driver's seat for the lever to make the seat slide back. She found it quickly and pushed them back, giving her more room, and then she caught his lips in an almost furious kiss. The more the GPS screamed at her the harder she kissed him, her hands pulling at the waistband of his only article of clothing as she kissed him deeper, trying her hardest not to cringe at the residual salt the peanuts had left on his tongue. He got the idea when her hands slid down underneath the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down his legs, and he reached around her and fumbled in the glove box for a condom. He dropped it into the tiny compartment in the door as he pulled her close to him, weaving his hands into her dirty hair, his fingernails pressing almost painfully into her scalp. Suddenly the pain felt good to her and she kissed him with renewed vigor. He kissed her back with a similar fervor which did nothing to quell the fire inside of her. She set her hands on his shoulders and lifted up slightly, giving him enough space to slide her underwear off, feeling like she was going to burn alive at any moment from the heat of the sun and his hands and his lips and it wasn't even like the air was on at all because she couldn't feel it. It was rash and spur of the moment, and they weren't really thinking, but she fell down onto him as soon as he threw her last pair of clean underwear into the backseat and rolled the condom on. She pressed her open mouth against his shoulder and tasted the sweat on his skin as she gasped at their contact, her nails digging into the slick leather of the seat, and she didn't let go of her rage and frustration until he was making love to her, and then she forgot all about her hatred for peanuts or anything at all.

They were sweatier than before and shaking when they fell apart from each other. Clara leaned back against the door and rested her head against his shoulder, catching her breath and trying to determine her odds of having a heat stroke while simultaneously trying to understand how and why she loved the man underneath her so much. She just knew her heart was swelling to the point of overwhelming her at the sight of him, with his head tipped back against the seat and his eyes still shut, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, an almost dazed look taking over his features. She reached up and brushed his hair back and then touched her chin, grimacing at the slight sting of pain. The beard had to go, and the GPS had to go, and the peanuts did too, but maybe they didn't have to. Maybe they could just stay like this forever.

"Christ, Clara," he finally said, opening his eyes and peering at her with an almost impressed look. "Love really is a burning thing."

She was beginning to cool down again. She pulled her hair off her neck and fanned herself, shifting towards her own seat. His arms latched around her waist before she moved far at all, bringing her down against his chest into a hug. She was still burning up and his body heat didn't help, but she also couldn't bring herself to move away. Being hugged by him felt too wonderful.

She regained her senses slowly as her mind and body began cooling down. She lifted her head and looked up at him.

"You just looked so sexy." She explained. She nodded at his beard, her content smile turning to a grimace. "Even with the beard, unfortunately."

He beamed at the compliment and ignored her insult towards his beard. "Oh how I love you, Clara Oswald. You make life such an unexpected pleasure, sometimes quite literally."

She kissed him softly and smiled against his lips, her heart fluttering in the way he always caused it to. He kissed her in turn and then pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks, his lips still turned up into a smile of his own, when they suddenly heard a siren. Clara pulled back from him and then leaned back over the console slightly, peeking out of the back windshield. She saw a red truck with police lights driving leisurely down the road. She looked at the Doctor in horror.

"Shit!" She said. She began glancing wildly around the car, searching for her dress. She saw it crumpled on the floor of the passenger side. She dove over and snatched it up, pulling it over her naked body. She tossed the Doctor his shorts after he disposed of the condom, his cheeks bright red, and then slid back over into her seat as he lifted his hips and quickly yanked the shorts up. She was combing her fingers through her hair and he was scooting his seat back up as they heard the truck door slam. Clara rose slightly and looked back, spotting an officer in a Stetson walking towards them. She lowered back down and pressed her palm over her mouth.

"Oh dear God," she whispered in horror. "He's wearing a Stetson."

They looked completely guilty of having just had sex, but as far as Clara knew, that wasn't against the law. She still made an effort to straighten her dress and saw the Doctor discreetly shove the plastic bag he'd thrown the evidence into underneath the seat. She got a sudden urge to laugh, but that laughter disappeared when the man appeared at the Doctor's window. Clara could see the slight smudge her sweaty back had left against the glass. It made him appear blurry in certain places.

The Doctor rolled down the window, trying his hardest to appear casual even though his face was red with embarrassment and overexcitement.

"License and registration." The officer greeted.

The Doctor shot Clara a panicked look. She leaned forward and opened the glove compartment, rummaging around the papers. She pulled out the car rental agreement and passed that to the Doctor, who shoved it towards the officer, and then she dug their passports from her bag. She shoved her hand into the Doctor's pocket after that, ignoring his yelp of surprise, and removed his wallet. She pulled his license from it and passed it to the officer.

He glanced at the foreign license and passports, opening the latter up to peer briefly at their names and citizenship. He looked back down at them, his lips curving up into a smile. "United Kingdommmm." He drew out the last word thoughtfully, almost jeeringly. "What're y'all doing all the way out here? You're about thirty miles from the border and twenty from Catarina. Car trouble?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to respond but Clara leaned over his lap, cutting him off.

"Yes. The engine was overheated." She said quickly.

His lips turned up with humor after she spoke, most likely in response to her accent. She could have done the same for his, but she was suddenly terrified she'd end up getting locked in some strange Texas prison where they'd cut out her liver and fry it and serve it with a side of Johnny Cash-hater blood.

He took a step back and peered at the hood of the car.

"Hood's down and there's no steam." He informed them. He stepped back towards the car and lifted his eyebrow, still smirking at them.

Clara nodded, glancing briefly at the closed hood as she tried to think.

"That's because I fixed it." She replied, without really thinking it through.

He guffawed.

"_You_ fixed it, little lady? Are you sure? There's a lotta stuff underneath that hood, you know."

He kept laughing. Clara sat back and lifted her eyebrows, her arms crossing over her chest. She heard the Doctor murmur something underneath his breath that sounded like _he's in for it now. _

"Yes, actually. I fixed it. And I know all about what's underneath that hood, thank you." She lied.

He wiped tears from his eyes, readjusting his hat to block the relentless sun. "Woo! You're a cutie. I'm sure you did. I just wanted to make sure y'all were all right, you know, stopped over on the side and all. Looked like you mighta been lost."

She was certain they _were_ lost, but she didn't like the condescending tone of his voice, nor his leer towards her chest.

"We're not lost. We're just exploring." The Doctor said defensively. "That's not a crime, is it?"

The man turned his gaze to the Doctor. "No, it ain't. But public indecency is. That'll earn you a night behind bars."

Clara saw the Doctor flush guiltily. She stepped in again. She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but she hoped he wouldn't pick up on it.

"Oh, thank you, we didn't know that. I'll make sure we aren't indecent in public anytime soon."

He laughed again and winked at her. "I'm sure you will, sweetheart. Nice dress, by the way."

She felt her lips curl up in a grimace. "Thank you." She ground out. But his gaze on her chest was too long to write off this time. "Anything else? Or did you want to stare at my tits for a little longer?"

He hooted and slapped his thighs, looking at her like she was absolutely precious. Clara had to dig her nails into her thigh and physically bite her tongue.

"Do I get a choice? Because of the two I pick the second."

The Doctor's jealousy flared. "Oi! That's my fiancée!"

Clara set a hand on his arm. "Ignore him."

But the man leaned forward, tipping his hat back as if see into the car better. Clara was growing increasingly uncomfortable underneath his crude stare. "Definitely the second."

He winked at her and licked his lips, earning him a cry of disgust from Clara.

"You're a pig!" She told him.

He lifted the tip of his nose and oinked. "Dirty like one too. If you want you could step out of the vehicle ma'am and I can prove it."

She took her hand off the Doctor's arm. His muscles were taunt with indignation.

"Okay." She told him, her glare on the officer. "Do what you want."

The Doctor, ever the pacifist, was trying his hardest to keep his anger in check. He looked around widely for a distraction and reached down to grab the bag of peanuts, still wedged between the side of his seat and the door, to offer the officer. But as he drew the bag up almost spastically he accidentally smacked the underside of the officer's chin hard enough to send his head right up into the top of the opened window. Clara gasped as the sharp crack was heard and the man let out a cry of pain, stumbling back from the car and falling down into the dusty dirt. His Stetson had cushioned most of the blow, but it was the smack to the underside of his chin that had him rolling around in agony.

"Shit!" The Doctor yelled. He turned to look at Clara in horror. "I didn't mean to do that! I just wanted to give him some peanuts! What do we do?! What do we do?! I don't want to go to jail in Texas!"

Clara looked between the writhing officer and her fiancé, her mind jumping between various options in her panic.

"Uh…um…" she pulled at her hair in distress. And then before she knew what she was doing, she was crawling back across the Doctor's lap and opening the driver's door, kneeling down into the dirt to gather their papers and passports and the Doctor's license. She threw them in the car and dived back in, accidentally slamming her hip hard into the gearshift. The pain brought tears to her eyes but she fell back into her seat and reached over, putting the car into drive. It began to roll forward before the Doctor pressed his foot back to the brakes in surprise. They jerked forward roughly.

"Run!" She explained.

He looked at her with wide eyes. "Run?! What if he remembers our names or the car?! And where the hell are we going to run to?!"

Clara looked at the man, still crying out in pain on the dirt.

"Mexico?" She suggested weakly.

The Doctor looked back at the officer. "He's got like three guns on his belt! Imagine how many are back at the police station!"

She huffed impatiently. "You're right! Maybe if I shag him he won't charge you for assaulting an officer! Do you know how much trouble you could get into in Texas for assaulting an officer as a foreigner?!"

He looked tortured. "But I don't want you to shag him."

She threw her hands up. "I'm _not _going to shag him! We're leaving! Go! He said we're thirty miles from the border, head back the opposite way, and for the love of _God_, do NOT make a U-turn!"

The Doctor shot the car forward, peering back at the officer in his rearview mirror. Clara turned around and watched as the officer shakily sat up, peering at them unseeingly as he gripped his chin. He didn't seem to make a move to even stand, much less chase them, so that was good.

"Shit, shit, shit!" The Doctor moaned. "What if they don't let us into Mexico? What if he calls the border police and they shoot us?!"

Clara started laughing. She knew she shouldn't have, that this might actually be serious, but it was so hilarious suddenly. He'd just been trying to offer the officer some of their bloody peanuts and now they were fleeing to Mexico. Only the Doctor.

"I'm a criminal!" He lamented. "I'm going to get put on some sort of terrorist list!"

Clara peered out the back window again, checking to make sure he wasn't following them. She could still see the small shape of his unmoving vehicle in the distance.

"No you aren't. Just keep driving." She told him. "He hasn't even made it back to his car, I don't think."

That didn't seem to reassure the Doctor. "What if I killed him?!"

Clara laughed again and then leaned over, grasping his chin gently and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I bloody love you." She told him with deep affection. She stroked the worry lines on his forehead. "You didn't kill him, Doctor. You whacked his chin. He's just a big baby."

He let out a pathetic cry of distress. "_I'm _a big baby! A big baby that killed a man!"

She couldn't help but laugh even more at that. She curled up onto her side on her seat and laughed hysterically into her thighs.

"This isn't funny! They have separate jails for men and women! We'll be separated for the rest of our lives!" He cried in despair.

She straightened and slid over so she was sitting on the middle console. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders to provide him some comfort.

"Look on the bright side. You wanted me to appreciate country western music. We're living a country western song right now." She told him cheerfully.

He looked at her in horror. "Clara, have you ever heard a country song?! They almost always end in divorce, or death, or—or…" his eyes went wide with terror. "Prison!"

She stroked his hair back. "Not all of them. Not like, um, you know…the fire one." She soothed, thinking of the only song she actually knew of.

He looked at her briefly with irritation but then smiled slowly. "That's true. 'I Walk the Line' also isn't depressing."

She nodded, eager to calm his fears. "Yes. So just pretend those are the country songs we're living."

He glanced at her with a smile she didn't fully understand. She felt she was missing some inside joke. "We already have been."

He told Clara to keep "look out" as he drove, finally ending up back on a paved highway.

"We'll have to get new names, new appearances, new lives." He told her frantically. "I guess this is my chance to finally be who I've always wanted. I'm going to change my name to Nick."

Clara turned to him. "_Nick_?"

He nodded quickly. "Yes. Nick. I feel like a Nick. You feel like a Jenny."

She fell back into her seat, ignoring his pleas for her to keep looking out for the police.

"I'm not changing my name to Jenny." She told him firmly. "And I'm not sleeping with anyone named Nick, so you probably shouldn't change yours either." She mumbled the next sentence underneath her breath. "Bloody Father Christmas beard."

He nodded in response to whatever thoughts were going through his own brain.

"This isn't so bad. We can retire on the beach in Mexico. Finish our educations at the National Autonomous University of Mexico; I hear it's pretty good." He continued.

She sighed heavily and then took his right hand off the steering wheel, lifting it up and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

"We are _not_ going to have to live in Mexico for the rest of our lives, Doctor. We're fine."

He turned and smiled at her unexpectedly.

"You're so beautiful." He told her almost wistfully, his eyes soft. "Danger suits you well."

She smiled back. "Thank you. Now stop looking at me like that before I climb over the console again."

He grinned. "Am I turning you on?"

She winked at him. "Almost always. And especially when we're on run from the law."

They came upon a small town that couldn't have had a population of more than three hundred, if even that. It was twilight and, after much encouragement from Clara, the Doctor stopped the car at a filling station. They cleaned all the trash from the car and then took turns pouring bottles of water over each other's heads, massaging shampoo into their respective scalps and then rinsing the soap out for each other. They stuffed underwear into their pockets, sneaking into the gas station bathroom to wash them in the sink.

"This can't be sanitary." The Doctor commented, staring at the dirty sink. Clara shrugged and squirted soap onto their underpants.

"According to you we might be in jail tomorrow, so let's make the most of our freedom to wash our underwear in a gas station sink."

They used the paper towels to clean themselves as well as they could without a shower and then wrapped the cleaned garments in a thick layer of paper towels and stuffed them back into their pockets, walking nonchalantly from the bathroom. They had twenty dollars and fourty-eight cents between the two of them. They stared at the cheap bags of peanuts in horror and then locked eyes.

"I saw a bar across the street." Clara said.

The Doctor's grin was slow as it spread out over his face. "If we spend this at the bar, we'll really be confined to peanuts. Or worse."

Clara grimaced. "What on earth could be worse than peanuts?"

He looked at her gravely. "Nothing. I mean that as in: nothing tastes worse than them but having nothing would be worse."

"Ah." She said. She turned and looked out the large, glass window, the dim lights of the bar calling to her. "We shouldn't."

He looked too.

"Probably not." He agreed.

They looked back up at each other slowly, their lips quivering with withheld laughter. And then they were sprinting back to the car, laughing as they spread their wet underwear out in the backseat to air dry. They left the car in the parking lot and grasped each other's hands, sprinting across the road to the tiny bar.

It was empty except for an elderly man, nursing what was probably his sixth beer of the night. The Doctor slid onto a barstool and Clara hopped up with some difficulty, thinking that everyone in this town must have been very tall. She caught the Doctor suppressing his laughter and gave him a stern look.

The Doctor ordered boldly.

"Jose Cuervo." He declared. The man prepared a shot in less than ten seconds, hardly even glancing at what he was doing. He looked to Clara.

"And for the lady?"

Clara shrugged. What the hell; when in Rome.

"Same for me."

He slid the shot in front of her, turning back to his dingy newspaper. The Doctor picked up the shot and downed it in one go, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Clara, never anything but a vodka tonic girl, tipped it back a little hesitantly. It was strong but smooth, and she peered down at the amber liquid thoughtfully. She could feel the Doctor's eyes on her.

"Not bad." She decided. She finished it off then, earning her a pleased laugh from the Doctor.

She was hungry, but after her third shot, she wasn't so much anymore. She leaned against the Doctor's side sleepily, hanging halfway off her stool, and listened to him singing along to some song. Only he just kept singing _ever since time nothing's ever been found that's stronger than love _over and over again, even though there were other lyrics being sung. He was definitely tipsy, having had four shots himself, and she wasn't sure, but she thought she might be too. She hugged his arm to her body and kissed his bicep over and over again, her affection making her cuddlier than she'd ever been.

"I love you," she told him happily. She leaned her head up and kissed his shoulder. "You even make sweat attractive. You're the best."

He had three more shots and she had two, but then she was starting to feel sick and uneasy, so she stopped. He was swaying along to the song playing, but unfortunately for both of them, he lost his balance and fell right off the stool, pulling Clara with him. She landed on top of him, knocking the air from both of them, but once they recovered they began giggling hysterically.

"You're so short," the Doctor told her lovingly.

Clara laughed at that and tried to stand up, but her knees locked and the world tilted precariously to the right and she fell right back down onto him. She hugged him, feeling warm inside like…like…

"I feel like my heart's wearing socks. Warm socks." She told him. "I love you."

He was still laughing. "You're so pretty. Did you see how I fell? I'm so happy."

She laughed along with him, leaning down to sloppily kiss him.

"Shh," she told him. She missed his mouth and kissed his beard instead.

"We gotta get up. Let's get up." He told her. He set his hands on the floor and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Clara grabbed into the stool and focused on pulling herself up slowly, ignoring the tilting dizziness that was beginning to make her nauseated. She glanced down at the Doctor once she was up, surprised to find him making snow angels on the bar floor.

"Haha, bar angels." He told her, and then he snorted he was laughing so hard.

Clara reached up and touched her forehead, suddenly stumbling to her left. She felt like the floor had been picked up and tiled right underneath her feet. She grabbed onto the counter.

"Doctor, I think I drank too much." She told him. Her voice sounded far away. She had to force herself not to close her eyes as she got dizzy again, because she knew from experience that closing her eyes almost always made her vomit. She stared at the empty shot glasses and forced her eyes to focus. And then she saw a familiar hat. She peered at the people in the doorway intently.

"Doctor." She called. She couldn't think straight or remember where she'd seen the man before. But then it hit her. "Oh! You're the officer!"

The man walked over to her, leaving his group of friends at the door. He appeared to be sliding all around the place, but Clara realized that was probably her, or just her intoxicated mind making her think it was. Either way. He stopped in front of her and laughed.

"Look who it is! The British runaways!"

Clara grabbed her sixth shot, still full as she'd stopped drinking after she ordered it. She held it out to him.

"Sorry 'bout your head. Here you go. Sorry, really."

He curled his lip up at her, reaching for his belt angrily (probably to shoot them, Clara thought), but then he took the shot and tipped it back.

The Doctor was vertical again.

"Heeeeeeey!" He called. He slung his arm around the officer's shoulders. "It's my officer friend with the cool hat! I'm sorry about your head. Really. So sorry. I just wanted—peanuts. I wanted you to have some peanuts." The Doctor turned distractedly to the bartender. "A shot for the man of the law!"

The officer looked like he was going to protest, but six shots later and he was sitting side-by-side with the Doctor, singing along to some song about a dog named Ol' Red who caught prisoners, their arms around each other's shoulders and the officer's Stetson on the Doctor's head. Clara was in an existential conversation with the elderly man at the bar. Or at least, she thought she was. Sometimes when she turned her head quickly to the right he blurred like he wasn't even really there, but he had very firm opinions about reincarnation and karma. He informed her that her mum's good karma had transferred to her after her death. Clara wasn't sure if that was true, and she started sobbing at the thought of her mother, but then the Doctor picked her up bridal style and began spinning them around and around to some other song. The officer was laughing with his buddies and Clara was trying to tell the Doctor that she was already dizzy and then her nausea peaked and she leaned over, puking onto the floor. The bile burned terribly coming up, but soon she was so dizzy she couldn't even remember the pain of it.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and looked up at the Doctor.

"I'm drunk maybe." She told him. She gripped her stomach and then tried to smack his shoulder, but she missed and swatted at the air. "Arg! My stomach hurts."

He was staring at her vomit like he couldn't figure out what was going on. He looked back at her.

"Blimey. Are you okay?"

She tapped his nose, almost missing and poking him right in the eye. "I'm drunk. I told you."

His eyes widened with realization. "Oh! Yeah. Yes. You said. I remember."

She laughed and laughed until suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. "Are _you_ okay?"

He beamed. "I'm perfect! I've got my Clara and—and my mate Bubba and this brilliant place! Life's so great!"

He started twirling her again.

"Nooo!" Clara screeched. He stopped quickly but lost his balance again, sending them falling to the dirty floor.

"I love this woman!" The Doctor yelled to everyone. "I'm going to marry her and have her babies!"

Clara groaned as her vision began spinning again. She was feeling sicker and sicker as each moment passed.

"No you aren't." She told him. "You've got the other parts. I've got those parts."

He nodded, his eyebrows furrowing. "Yes, that's right. That's right."

"Love is…great!" Bubba cried, earning him shouts of agreement from his friends and the Doctor. "Love is—great! We should all just follow our hearts! Let's—let's marry them!"

Clara rolled over so she was halfway on top of the Doctor. He was staring up at the ceiling with a dopey grin on his face. She touched his lips and tapped his temples, giggling as she did.

"I feel terrible." She said as she laughed. "But you're so beautiful."

Bubba came out of seemingly nowhere.

"Do you want to live with her forever and ever and ever and ever?" He asked the Doctor.

The Doctor looked up at his new "friend", his vision quite shifty. He hugged Clara a little too tightly, crushing her to his chest.

"Oh yes," he said. "Forever. I want to take baths with her and buy furniture together."

Clara giggled at that, but it was hard seeing as though he was crushing her lungs. She smacked him. "You're crushin' my lungs!"

He loosened his grip. "Sorry."

Bubba tapped Clara's head. She got irritated and jerked her head away from him, turning an accusatory glance his way.

"Do you want to live with him forever and ever and ever?" He asked her.

Clara looked down at the Doctor, at his handsome face and his adorable smile and beautiful eyes. She felt all her anger disappearing.

"Absolutely!"

Bubba and his friends cheered.

"Then you are now husband and wife! George, put the man's favorite on!"

'Ring of Fire' started, and this time, instead of getting angry, Clara sighed happily.

"Such a great song." She said dreamily. "He fell right into that ring."

The Doctor clapped once the song began playing.

"Cheers!" He yelled to the guys. He tried to get up after that but didn't make it very far. Clara clambered back onto her feet and helped the Doctor back up onto his, sinking into his embrace immediately once they were upright.

"I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you," she told him.

Bubba shoved two shots their way.

"Drinks for the newlyweds!"

Clara cringed away from the alcohol. "No! Noooo more. No way. No way Jose Cuervo."

The Doctor turned it down too, declaring that if his "lady" wasn't having one he wasn't either. He practically dragged them back over to the stool and sat on it. Clara stood between his parted legs and leaned against his chest, her arms tight around his neck.

"Where are we?" She asked him. She watched the flickering yellow lights above her head as they spun around and around. It was like being on a carousel.

He slid his hand underneath her dress only to gasp, scandalized.

"Clara! You've got no—oh yeah." He giggled.

She suddenly wanted very much to see the stars. She leaned back, overestimating her balance and almost toppling backwards. The Doctor caught her quickly.

"Let's go to the car. Let's go see the stars. I want to see the big dipper." She told him.

He closed his eyes tightly, like he was trying to remember what the big dipper was. Or maybe stars. Or the car.

"Okay. Let's go." He told her. He hopped off the barstool and began stumbling towards the bathrooms. Clara caught his hand and tugged him towards the door. He shared many overdramatic goodbyes with his new buddies as Clara pulled him through the doorway, stumbling a lot herself. They made it halfway across the street and then threw up into the gutter at almost the same time. They looked up at each other and laughed.

"Sick buddies," the Doctor slurred. Clara thought it was hilarious and laughed so hard she almost peed.

They pushed their still-damp underwear onto the floor of the backseat and the Doctor lied down on his back, pulling Clara's body down on top of his. He spent a good two minutes trying to pull the quilt up over them, his coordination long gone, and Clara passed out before he even had them covered.

* * *

She was desperately sick when she woke. Her head ached with a dull, relentless pain that didn't ease no matter how she shifted her neck. She was dizzy even with her eyes shut. She felt around her, relieved to feel the Doctor's body still underneath hers.

"Big mistake." She moaned.

"Biggest." He agreed. She opened her eyes slowly. The Doctor was gripping his head in his hands and groaning.

They went back into the gas station and used the last of their money to buy a gallon of water. They sat in the backseat and passed it back and forth, drinking it slowly. When they were halfway through, something occurred to Clara.

"Doctor. How did we buy so much alcohol last night? We only had twenty dollars." She said.

He had drunk more than her and vomited less, so he was much worse off this morning. He had his head in his hands.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I think…" he lifted his head, his eyes wide. "Oh God."

Clara looked at him warily. "What?"

He covered his mouth with his hand. "I think we opened a tab."

Clara stared at him for a moment and then found herself laughing gradually.

"Big mistake on their part. We aren't even American, much less Texans." She said.

He laughed but then winced, lowering his head back down. Clara drank more of the water and tried to piece together last night. She remembered deep feelings of love, the sting of her vomit, the officer singing with the Doctor, falling down onto the floor—

She stopped. She tugged on the Doctor's sleeve.

"Doctor." She said.

He looked up at her blearily.

"Did we…get married last night?" She asked uncertainly. She couldn't remember much between staring at the spinning ceiling and hearing the officer make a toast to the newlyweds.

He peered at her intently, thinking hard. "Surely not. You have to have paperwork for that. Or something. Right? I remember Bubba said—but he couldn't be certified for that. Right?"

She nodded firmly, even though she wasn't so sure. "Right."

The Doctor fell over onto his side, resting his head in her lap. She ran her fingers through his hair as she tried to sort through her dazed memories. She gave up after a while.

"So." She started. She grinned and leaned over, kissing the Doctor gently. She lifted her head back up and peered down at him. "Where to next?"


	9. The Awkward Nine

_changes, in-betweens, and reliability_

* * *

"Hold still, Doctor. Stop looking at the window, look straight at me."

The Doctor fell still and turned his head obediently back towards his elder brother, taking a deep breath and clearing his expression once more. He stared at Ten's piece of charcoal as he rubbed it over the paper, admiring the way the seemingly abstract and random lines joined to create what he could see now was his face. The Doctor could hear Clara playing outside with Mary, and he was trying not to fidget and stand and look out the window, but he wanted to see if she was having fun. He hoped she was having enough to be happy but not enough to want to play with Mary all the time instead of him. He wanted her to miss him because she hadn't talked to him all day today, on account of the fact that he'd accidentally broken her Spice Girls CD the day prior during an argument. He felt awful about it but she hadn't given him an opportunity to apologize.

Ten had finished the rough outline and was reaching for his colored pencils when Tara walked through the doorway, holding Ten's school planner in her hands.

"Ten, you've got biology homework." She reminded him. She stood behind him and set her free hand gently on his shoulder, appraising his drawing of his little brother. "It's beautiful, but you're supposed to be making a Punnett square right now. I don't care if it is Friday night. You're going to have your homework done by dinner regardless."

He didn't glance up at her. He began to color in the Doctor's green eyes, mingling the green with some gold and a tiny bit of brown, looking up to meet his brother's eyes every few seconds to ensure he was blending the shade correctly.

"I'm doing it right now." He told Tara. "We're supposed to look at our family and observe eye color."

The Doctor sometimes read his brother's biology textbook at night when he was too energetic to sleep, so he knew that his brother was not doing a Punnett square. He glanced up at Tara and saw that she knew it too.

"It might have been a few years since I've studied biology, but I do know that sketching a picture of your brother isn't a Punnett square." Tara said.

Ten set down the green once he finished shading the Doctor's eyes and then began coloring in his hair. Tara tapped the twelve-year-old's shoulder with his planner.

"Ten! You've got homework!" She nagged.

He dropped the brown and then reached for the charcoal again, writing _family _almost angrily above his brother's picture and then turning around in his seat to stare at Tara.

"There! You see! I've shown the dominant alleles in my entire immediate family! My little brother has green eyes and brown hair." He stood up and shoved his stool back underneath his easel angrily, storming off towards the kitchen. Tara stared at the picture for a moment, her mouth twisted with the deeply depressed look the Doctor caught her wearing sometimes, and then she tossed his planner down and turned after him.

"Ten! That is _not_ a Punnett square and you know it!" She yelled after him.

Their yelling faded to the occasional screamed, intelligible phrase. The Doctor stood up from the sofa and walked over, picking up his brother's planner. He flipped through it, staring at all the little sketches in the margins and turning his folded love letters to Rose between his fingers, debating opening them before deciding against it. Bits of their argument drifted down towards him.

"—I DON'T _REMEMBER_ WHAT SHADE EYES MY FATHER HAD, SO I CAN'T VERY WELL—"

"—YOU COULD _ASK ME FOR HELP_, TEN! THAT'S WHAT I'M HERE FOR!"

"I DON'T NEED HELP! I DID THE ASSIGNMENT, OKAY? I DON'T WANT TO DO IT LIKE THAT BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT THEM!"

The Doctor could feel his heart pounding with anxiety. He didn't like it when Tara and Ten argued. He swore he'd never argue with Tara like that, but whenever he promised her that, she laughed knowingly and told him that being twelve made you do things you wouldn't think you'd do when you were nine. He guessed that that was probably true.

He waited five minutes to see if their fighting would stop, but it didn't, so he tossed the planner back down and left the house, slamming the door shut behind him. It was cool outside and he'd forgotten to grab his jacket, but he knew if he went over to Clara's that Ellie would make him some hot cocoa and sit with him even if Clara was still angry. He planned to dart through her backyard to avoid her and Mary, but when he looked towards the front of her house, he saw that they were no longer playing outside. Mary's father must have picked her up sometime during Ten and Tara's screaming match.

He knocked softly on the front door and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Ellie opened the door with a happy exclamation of _Doctor!_, like she'd been expecting him all day. She tousled his hair with a smile and opened the door widely, inviting him into their warm foyer. He had always liked this room second best because it always greeted him with open arms. The bright rug and the red walls emitted a kind energy that he needed.

"Is Clara still cross with me?" He asked Ellie, once she shut the door behind him. "Because I didn't meant to break it. Honest. I'm going to buy her another whenever I get money."

Ellie rolled her eyes at him. "Clara's stubborn, give her a little time. Don't worry about the CD. She'll come around. Do you want to have some cocoa with me? I saved an article I saw in yesterday's paper that I thought you might like."

He beamed and nodded fervently. "Yes, I would like that a lot. Ten and Tara are fighting again and it gives me a headache."

She frowned briefly and then rested her arm around his shoulders, walking with him towards the kitchen.

"Well, I can't promise it'll be that much quieter around here, but I _do_ promise most of the screaming will be from laughter." She reassured him.

He thought carefully about that. "That's okay. Screaming from laughter isn't bad at all."

She hummed with agreement, her back to him as she started the kettle. "I have to agree with you on that one, Doctor." She crossed over to the table near the back door with their mail and grabbed a newspaper clipping on top. She carried it over to him and sat down in the chair across from his, sliding it across the table. The Doctor took it eagerly and scanned the title. _Italian Researchers Identify Mirror Neurons._ He tried his hardest to look pleased, but Tara had already made him read that article. And this copy was missing half of the second column, so he wasn't sure how he was supposed to read it.

"Oh. Mirror neurons!" He said, faking his excitement pathetically. Ellie looked at him quizzically and then leaned over the table, peering at the article. She laughed.

"Oh, no—flip it over!" She told him. He looked at her in almost surprised relief for a moment until she gestured for him to flip it, urging him forward. He turned it over quickly. _Baby Giraffe Found in Child's Wardrobe in London Flat_. The Doctor gasped and pulled the paper closer to his face.

"No way!" He cried. He scanned the article quickly, laughing delightedly at the idea that the child had managed to smuggle the creature all the way into her house and keep it there for a week before anyone found out.

"Did you see what they named it?" Ellie asked.

He continued reading the article, stopping at the part she was talking about. He lowered it and looked at her with a wide grin.

"Mr. Smith!" He said with excitement.

She laughed at his joy and nodded. "I thought you might like that since you always use Giraffe as your codename when you and Clara play spies."

He looked at her sincerely. "I do like it. Thank you, Mrs. Oswald."

She took a sip of her cocoa and smiled into the mug. The Doctor drank some of his, but talking about playing with Clara made him remember Clara was angry with him, and that made him sad all over again. It was almost like she knew he was thinking about her, because at that moment, he heard her soft footsteps headed their way. He had the urge to dive underneath the table and hide behind Ellie's skirt, but he knew that was foolish.

The door swung open to reveal Clara, already in her fuzzy red robe like she was on her way to bed. She stopped dead in her tracks and pinned an accusing look on her mother.

"Traitor. You're having tea with my enemy." She said darkly. She flicked her hair over the shoulder and pushed her nose up in the air, continuing towards the drawer she had walked in to get into. The Doctor knew it was their tool drawer, which meant Clara was up to something.

"_Hot cocoa_ with your enemy." Ellie corrected her daughter. She watched her open the drawer and begin pulling out tools: a screwdriver, a wire cutter, some electrical tape, a hammer. "What exactly are you doing, Clara?"

Clara reached into the pockets of her robe and pulled out St. Ignatius, her Tamagotchi. He was looking a little worse for the wear, with scratches and dents. He was bleeping incessantly.

"I am exactly teaching St. Ignatius a lesson, Ellie." She told her mother matter-of-factly. She began prying at his hatch with the flat-headed screwdriver, her mouth set in a determined line.

"What's he doing?" The Doctor asked curiously. She tossed her nose back up into the air and ignored him.

"Please give all questions to my traitor mother, enemy." She informed the Doctor, her back still towards him. He huffed in annoyance and turned slowly to Ellie. His curiosity and pride were in a war but, per usual, his curiosity won.

"Mrs. Oswald. Will you ask your daughter what St. Ignatius did?" He asked tiredly.

Ellie rolled her eyes at her daughter's back. "Clara, what is he doing?"

They heard a disturbing cry come from the Tamagotchi as his panel and screws fell down onto the countertop. Clara didn't even look up from her work.

"He's hungry all the time no matter what I feed him and he won't shut up. So I'm gonna make it where he's never hungry ever again." She declared firmly.

"Don't you think you should just feed him more often?" Her mother suggested. "Use your nurturing."

Clara sighed and spun around, pointing the screwdriver at them both.

"I AM using my nurturing. I'm fixing him."

She turned back around and began slamming the handle of the screwdriver into the Tamagotchi's head, causing his bleating to slowly die down. The Doctor thought to himself that she probably wasn't making him not hungry anymore, she was probably just killing him, but he was afraid to say anything lest she try and "fix" him too.

Once Clara deemed St. Ignatius fixed, she put him and all his broken parts into her pockets, along with the screwdriver. Her mother opened her mouth to protest but Clara lifted a hand.

"It's fine, Mummy. I have to rebuild him. It will take a long time. I have to examine his inner workings."

Her mother gaped at her for a moment and then shook her head, like she just couldn't figure her daughter out. The Doctor couldn't really figure her out either so he definitely understood that.

"Clara?" He asked hesitantly, as her fingers grazed the kitchen door. She stopped walking and turned around, peering at him expectantly. "I'm sorry I broke your CD."

She extended a hand and motioned with her fingers for him to give more. He scrambled for what else he did wrong.

"Uhh...umm..." he looked at Ellie in confusion, but she shrugged.

"And you're sorry for telling me that Posh Spice is the worst?" Clara led.

He latched onto her help and nodded his head fervently.

"Yes. I am so sorry. She's the best." He said quickly.

Clara sighed again and then turned her head slightly to the right, appraising him. Then she dug the screwdriver from her pocket and held it out to him.

"Okay. I need your help anyways." She told him.

He grinned and hurried over to her, taking the screwdriver in his left and her offered hand in his right. She wove their fingers together and began tugging him up towards her bedroom, the Tamagotchi making sad, feeble beeps from her pocket.

"Was Ten yelling again?" She wondered.

The Doctor groaned. "Like a mad man."

Clara stopped in front of her door and gave him a knowing look. "People go crazy when they become twelve."

The Doctor thought about Ten's attitude and mood swings and how he was keeping a lot of secrets from Tara now. He nodded. "I don't ever want to grow up. I don't want to get in fights all the time or write love notes."

Clara shuddered, sticking her tongue out. "Uck. All Mary talks about is love notes. If some bloke wrote me a love note I'd chuck it at his head."

The Doctor followed her into her bedroom, nodding his head in agreement.

"He even puts hearts on the front," he shared with her, lowering his voice in case Ten somehow heard him from the house over.

Clara let out a cry of disgust. "YUCK!"

He sighed. "We're all doomed. Doomed, I tell you. 'Cause have you heard about puberty yet?"

She stared at him warily. "I'm not even talking to you about that because it's a secret for girls only."

He furrowed his brow. Ten had told him all about the weird things that were going to happen to him and he was freaked out by it, but now he was realizing with even more uneasiness that he actually didn't know what happened to girls, because some of that stuff couldn't be the same for them. And mostly he just didn't know how he felt about his voice getting squeaky like Ten's was starting to.

"We don't have secrets." He told her with confusion. "We tell each other everything."

She looked at him with a weird expression and then began busying herself with pulling her sick Tamagotchi and all his mechanic guts from her pocket.

"Well we do now, because Mrs. Mancini at church said it's a girls' secret and you are not a girl. You are a boy." She informed him.

He frowned and followed her as she crossed her room, setting down St. Ignatius on her "work table". Her parents had bought her a sewing desk but she'd never used it once for that purpose. The machine sat dusty inside and the top was littered with bits of random electronics she'd dissected.

"But it doesn't matter that I'm a boy. Remember that's what you always say." He reminded her. Kids teased them for playing together but Clara always explained that they were best friends and therefore everyone had to shut up. The argument worked best when delivered with Clara's tiny fist held up beside her eye threateningly.

She slammed St. Ignatius down on the table, popping open another panel, and then looked up at him seriously.

"It matters now because I'm going to be a woman." She told him loftily. She tapped her ruler against the table after thinking intently. "In anywhere from two to eight years."

Ten had not told him that he was going to be a man. Would Clara turn into a woman and he'd still be a little boy? He realized he should have asked Ten more questions.

"Well, I'm going to be a man." He told her defensively. "In one year!"

That was a lie. Clara knew it too. She looked at him with an eye roll.

"Mrs. Mancini says boys take longer than girls to grow up."

He glowered at the wall. "Well Mrs. Mancini is an idiot."

She looked at him sternly. "Mrs. Mancini is not an idiot. She's making my dress for First Communion."

Truthfully, the Doctor didn't care to hear much about Mrs. Mancheesy or First whatever-she-said. He wanted to hear more about this mysterious secret. He watched her work on the Tamagotchi, her eyebrows lowered intently, and tried to discretely examine her to see if he could see any differences. But she looked like she always did. He guessed he'd have to wait three years and ask her again.

He let it go and sat beside her on the bench, passing her tools and watching her practically torture the electronic pet. After two hours of quiet work, she turned the Tamagotchi back on and he was surprisingly happy and healthy. She pumped her fist in the air in success.

"I did it!" She said happily. She ran to the door and threw it back, accidentally slamming it into the wall, and barreled down the stairs. "MUM! I DID IT! CALL DADDY! CALL HIM!"

After Dave got a long retelling of his daughter's successful surgery on her pet Tamagotchi, Ellie asked the Doctor if he wanted to stay for dinner. He sniffed the air, smelling something that made him grin knowingly up at Ellie.

"Fish fingers and custard?" He guessed.

She ruffled his hair. "I know what you like."

He grinned happily and clapped his hands. "I love it and I love you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

He and Clara watched a movie until dinner was ready, sitting close together in the middle of the couch. It caved downward in the middle from the three years of them sitting daily in that same spot together, so even if they tried to sit on the outer cushions, they'd eventually slide right back together again.

He knew he probably should have gone home after dinner, but he followed Clara back up to her room. They draped her blankets over the headboard and footboard and turned off all the lights, climbing underneath the makeshift tent with her lamp that shone stars onto the ceiling. They curled up onto their sides facing each other and set the lamp at the top, staring up at it quietly.

"Do you think we'll still be friends whenever you become a woman?" The Doctor asked. He felt very vulnerable and wished they'd kept one blanket underneath to cover up with.

Clara looked at him and smiled. "Of course, stupid. We just won't swim as much probably."

He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. They spent most every day in the summer in the sprinkler or pool.

"How come? Ladies swim." He argued.

She peered at him with haunted eyes, like she'd seen something terrible he could never comprehend. "There are dark and bloody days ahead, Doctor. You have no idea. No idea at all."

He waited for more, for some sort of explanation, but nothing came. The Doctor was very confused (and concerned) but he decided that Clara was just being overdramatic.

"I'm very scared actually, but don't tell anyone that, because then I would have to kill you and then who am I supposed to play with?" She continued.

He shifted further onto his side and looked intently at her. She did have her scared-face on. She was even fiddling with her hands.

"What are you scared about?" He asked gently. He was scrawny but he knew he would hurt anyone who made her scared. That was basically all he knew.

She grimaced. "Bein' a lady."

He was relieved to hear that, because he was scared too.

"I'm scared of being a man. And having a squeaky voice like Ten. Maybe we should just be kids forever." He suggested.

She grinned happily. "Yeah! Maybe."

He beamed, pleased that she agreed. She stared at him, her eyes pinned on his for a couple of seconds. Her scared-face was still on.

"Doctor? When you become a man—which will be _way_ after I become a lady, of course—will you still play with me? Or will you spend all day in the closet on the phone with girls like Ten does?"

The Doctor patted her head. "I don't like closets. They're too small and dark."

"And girls are gross. Except for me." She added.

He nodded firmly. "Right. And boys are gross except for me."

"Right. All people are gross except for me, you, my mum and dad, and sometimes Mary." She summarized.

That seemed about right to him. "Yeah. And maybe we'll even talk to each other on the phone."

He grew embarrassed before he even realized what he'd said and what it might sound like. He blushed first and then widened his eyes with realization. Clara giggled.

"No way. We'll just walk next door and talk to each other." She said innocently.

He relaxed. He didn't want Clara to think that he like-liked her. Like Ten liked Rose.

"Mmhmm." He agreed.

She turned over onto her back and stared up at the fake stars. She lifted her arm and touched the blanket gently with her fingers, tracing constellations. He followed her movements with his eyes.

"Maybe when we grow up we'll see the real stars." She wondered aloud.

He smiled at the idea of that. "We could be astronauts. Together."

She smiled briefly but then her features furrowed. "Can ladies be astronauts?" She wondered uneasily.

The Doctor frowned. He'd never heard Clara ask a question like that before. She was the one saying that no one could tell her what she was and wasn't going to do. He decided whatever she'd found out about puberty must have been pretty freaky. "Of course they can. Girls can do whatever they want. You said so yourself."

She didn't look convinced. "I guess."

He touched her hair. He was always surprised by how soft it was. He thought that her mum must spend a lot of time putting conditioner spray in it.

"Will you tell me your secret now?" He asked.

She grimaced. "Never. I will take it to my grave and you will never know."

He crossed his arms unhappily. "That's not very best friendy of you."

"Well you broke my Spice Girls CD. That wasn't very best friendy of you either." She shot back.

He glanced down at his hands in the dark guiltily. He supposed that was true. He listened to the quiet sound of her breathing and knew he'd have to go home soon, but he was dreading it. He slid closer to her so that her shoulder was against his and smiled into the darkness.

"Clara?" He asked her.

"Yeah?"

"I'd be really sad if you never talked to me again."

She was quiet for a few moments. He thought she wouldn't say anything back. But then she slid closer and rested her head on his arm.

"I'd be sad too." She admitted.

He closed his eyes and felt himself beginning to drift off to sleep. He felt safer in that moment with her than he'd ever felt in his entire life. There was a sense of security with her that he didn't feel with anyone else. Not even Ten. Not even Tara. Even then, there was a part of him that was just for her, and he wondered if maybe it always had been.

She fell asleep and he stayed awake long enough for their breathing to synchronize, and it was nice. It was good. She was the closest he'd ever been to anyone else and he felt that bond was unbreakable, and he needed something to rely on. He needed people to rely on. So he relied on her, and as he drifted off to sleep as well, he knew he'd be safe.

* * *

When he woke up early the next morning, everyone was still asleep. He was lying underneath the blankets with his head on the pillow, staring up at Clara's ceiling, so he assumed Ellie came in and took down their tent and tucked them both in. He sat up slowly, careful not to wake Clara, and looked around. In the dusty blue morning light, her room looked quieter than normal. It looked peaceful. He turned slightly and glanced down at her, surprised by how little she looked. He touched his friend's hair gently, staring at her funny nose and her dark eyebrows. He smiled. He settled back down underneath the covers and drifted back off to sleep.

He woke again to the sound of Tara talking to the Oswalds. He breathed in the scent of Tara's peppermint lotion as she sat down beside him, gently shaking him awake. He climbed out of the bed sleepily, his eyes finding Clara's right as she blinked awake. She smiled at him and extended her hand. He darted past Tara and took her hand in his, laughing as they did their secret handshake. They didn't have to say words.

Tara thanked the Oswalds for letting him stay over and apologized for his "imposition", and then they were walking back to his house.

"You're getting too old for this, Doctor." She told him firmly. "You probably shouldn't sleep in Clara's bed anymore. Actually, I don't know if you two should have sleepovers at all."

He was still half asleep and couldn't follow her logic, not that he thought he'd ever be able to.

"Why not?" He asked her sleepily. He liked sleeping in Clara's bed. He liked how warm she was and the smell of her hair. She always kept her sheets really neat too, so her cover sheet was never bunched up at the bottom like it was on his bed.

"Because soon you won't be a little boy anymore." She explained.

If being a man meant he couldn't sleep in Clara Oswald's bed any longer, he didn't want anything to do with that. He groaned tiredly. He was sick of hearing about growing up.

"So?" He demanded. Why couldn't older people sleep in beds with other older people?

"So you're a boy and she's a girl." Tara continued.

"SO?" He asked again.

"So…it's…" but she was having a hard time articulating what she meant. The conversation ended there and the Doctor was just as confused as he was when the conversation started.

He followed Tara around innocently the rest of the morning, helping her with various household chores, his mind on Clara's secret.

"Tara?" He asked her hesitantly. She was changing the lightbulb in a lamp and looked up at him distractedly.

"Yes, Doctor?"

He scratched nervously at his face. "You know puberty?"

She froze. Unfortunately for her, she's just screwed the bulb all the way in, and the lamp was still switched on. The heat surging to the lightbulb seared her fingers and she yanked her hand back with a soft gasp, shaking her hand in pain. She turned fully towards the Doctor.

"Doctor, I know we said it would be a few years, but if there's anything that…well, your brother can…I would try to…" she stopped and looked at him almost desperately. "You're nine!"

He nodded. "I know I'm nine. I was just wondering about something because Ten didn't explain very well. Something about girls."

She looked deeply relieved. He didn't know what she'd assumed he was going to say, but what he had said was somehow a relief to her.

"Oh, okay. Of course. What is it?"

He took a deep breath. "What happens to girls?"

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Like…boys voices get deeper and they get more hair and muscles. What happens to girls?" He made a few deductions. "They get—" he gestured awkwardly at his flat chest, resisting the urge to laugh immaturely because Tara would scold him. "But…what else?"

She looked horrified at the turn the conversation had taken. "Oh, Doctor, that's not really…" she stopped. "It doesn't really concern you, Thief."

He looked at her like she'd said something inherently stupid. "Of course it does. Clara's a girl."

Dawning understanding painted her face. "Oh! But Clara's only—what did she say?"

He looked away uneasily, scared of somehow betraying Clara's trust by saying anything she'd told him. "Just that it was a girl secret."

She nodded. "Well…um…"

He waited. Tara shifted uneasily. Ten always said that Tara had never had kids for a reason and while the Doctor thought it was mean, he kind of understood it.

"I'm going to buy you a book." She finally said. She nodded, more to herself than to him. "Yes, a book all about bodies. One that's for your age group. I'm going to go do that right now."

She hurried over to the armchair and grabbed her coat draped over the back. The Doctor trailed after her.

"But I don't want a book. I just want someone to tell me." He told her.

She waved her hand. "Nonsense, everyone wants a book. Books are great. You love books."

He stared at the closed door after she left, his face scrunched up with irritation. He didn't even hear anyone come down the stairs until he felt someone pat his shoulder.

"Hey Doctor," Rose greeted.

The Doctor turned around suspiciously. She was a girl. Was she going to hide things from him too?

"What? Are you here to hide secrets from me as well?" He snapped.

She lifted her eyebrows and laughed. "Rough morning?"

He crossed his arms over his chest with frustration. "No one will tell me the girl secret."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "The girl secret?"

He nodded and threw his hands up. "Yes! The secret girl secret! Tara went to get me a book about bodies!"

Rose's eyes widened, just a bit.

"Ah." She said. Then she patted his shoulder. "You're too young for secrets, Doctor."

He groaned loudly and threw his hands up into the air. "I'm too old to sleep in Clara's bed but I'm too young to know a secret?! Being nine sucks! I hate it!"

"Being twelve is worse. Trust me." Rose told him.

He grimaced at her. "Oh just go upstairs and write some more love letters to my brother, you ungrateful lady-woman!"

He stomped his way into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind him. He sat down heavily at the table and rested his chin in his hand, sighing angrily as he traced a scar on the tabletop.

"Dumb nine. Dumb age." He mumbled underneath his breath. "Dumb Tara. Dumb Clara. Dumb Rose. Dumb girls."

He stopped tracing and shook his head.

"No, not dumb Clara. But dumb everyone else." He corrected.

He was about to kick the table in his frustration when Ten stuck his head into the kitchen.

"Doctor, Clara's at the door."

The Doctor grinned and jumped right up, forgetting his previous anger.

"Oh yeah! Saturday! Spy and Soufflé Saturday!" He said happily, to no one in particular.

The Doctor spent the rest of the day with Clara, and by the time Tara returned with a book all about puberty, he was running around in the grass pretending to be James Bond. Tara smiled and took the book upstairs, thankful that she now had a few hours to think up exactly how to have the conversation.


	10. Public Opinion

**A/n: **A few suggestions different people left for oneshots are currently in the works and will probably be making an appearance either next chapter or the one after that. Thanks for reading and thanks to those who reviewed!

* * *

_quiet support, a rejuvenating picnic, and one new friend_

* * *

Truthfully, she expected the surplus of testosterone.

It'd been like that in college as well. She was the only girl in her ICT class and one of three in her Computing class. She'd already accepted that going into this field would mean traveling it as the sole representative of estrogen. But what she hadn't expected was the way she'd be treated.

She knew she'd be nervous her first day of classes and prepared accordingly. She and the Doctor made sure to wake up an hour earlier than normal so they could have breakfast together, even though they both didn't eat much due to jitters. She'd worn her favorite outfit—her red dress with a collar and cap-sleeves and her favorite heeled boots—and walked hand-in-hand with the Doctor for as far as possible. They shared a brief kiss, their hands still clasped tightly together, but then they had to go their separate ways. Clara had teased him by refusing to let go of his hand, making a show of pulling him back to her for another kiss, but deep down she meant it. She was terrified and she wanted him with her. He was heading towards Denmark Hill Campus and she was heading towards Strand. They'd mapped it out together last night. It would take about thirty-three minutes on public transit to reach each other. They'd picked a spot almost halfway between them to eat lunch at every day and Clara kept the folded slip of paper with the directions in her pocket. She'd never tell him about how she sat nervously on the bus with her hand wrapped tightly around it, or about how it was almost damp with nervous sweat when she finally let go of it for the sake of opening the door to the Department of Informatics. When she lifted her schedule to glance at her room number for the hundredth time that morning, she saw she had a faint outline in blue ink of the directions to Kennington Park on her palm. She touched it briefly and smiled.

Her first warning sign of the state of the department should have been when someone stopped her for the second time to ask her if she was lost. The first time she smiled politely and said that no, she didn't think so, and kept walking. The second time she merely shook her head and picked up her pace, brushing past his humored smile.

Her first Robotics lecture was larger than she'd anticipated. She found the room easily and stepped through the door, surprised to find herself at the bottom of a large stadium lecture hall, filled to the brim with men. She resisted the urge to stop dead in her tracks as everyone's eyes locked onto her. She could have reacted in many different ways to the sudden whispering and leers, but in the end she chose to square her shoulders and walk past the front podium and the long chalkboards, carefully climbing the stairs to locate an open seat. Preferably in a dark corner. With a buffer of two empty seats. The trick was finding a seat without making eye contact with any of the pairs of eyes on hers, and it wasn't an easy thing to do. She ended up glancing only three columns in, searching in a well-contained panic for an open space. Finally, when the echoing of her heeled boots against the wooden floors was beginning to sound almost ridiculously vain, she saw a spot on the very last row. Fourth column. The two seats beside it were empty.

She had to slide past the man sitting on the end. She turned to her side and shoved her hips against the seat ahead of her, trying to slide past his knees without actually touching him with any part of her rear, but she wasn't entirely successful. She hurried two seats over and sat down carefully, noticing now why the seat was empty. The side desk was hanging off its hinges, brushing the floor. She sat her bag down in her lap and took a quiet breath, closing her eyes for just a moment. Only four hours until lunch. Only four hours. She settled her palms in her lap and opened her right hand, peering at the now-blurry imprint of the park directions. Suddenly four hours seemed an almost torturous length of time.

Her lecturer was short and stout, with small, birdy eyes that peered sharply around the room. She got the impression that he saw all and it was a bit unsettling, especially when his gaze lingered on her for just a split second longer than everyone else. He obviously hadn't meant to do it, but Clara noticed. And she knew everyone else probably had too. She tried to pay attention to the lecture, but writing with her notebook in her lap made her wrists cramp and she didn't dare get up in the middle to find another seat with a working desk. Had she not been in a dress, she could have pulled her legs up and used her knees as an easel. There were a lot of reasons she wished she hadn't work her favorite dress, one of the main being the fact that the boisterous color ensured that everyone in the hall could turn and find her without much trouble throughout the entire lecture, as if they were all checking to see if she was still there. They probably all thought she'd meant to show up to some lecture on the Bronte sisters in the English Language Centre and looked mildly surprised each time they saw she was still there. She was a horrid beacon; a splash of bright red softness against the gray and navy hardness of the men. And she wanted to fall right through the floor.

She hadn't noticed that there was another woman present until the lecture ended. She waited in her seat for most of the men to file out, pressing her back into the thread-bare cushion and trying not to glare each time her thighs were brushed up against, mostly accidentally but sometimes doubtfully so. When it was just her and a handful of other people, she noticed a girl standing in the very first row. At first glance she hadn't even known she was a girl, because she was wearing a black turtleneck and black slacks, her hair pulled up into a fierce bun. But her feminine features were impossible to mask, even if she'd forgone all makeup probably for that purpose.

Clara threw her notebook and pen into her bag as she hurried from her row, taking the steps two at a time which was usually dangerous for someone with such short legs. She zipped her bag as she walked, hurrying after the woman. She didn't know what she was doing. Was she going to talk to her? Follow her? Cry on her shoulder? She just knew she needed to make sure she'd seen what she thought.

She followed her all the way out into the courtyard. The woman's long stride was hard to match and Clara resisted the urge to take off her boots and race barefoot across the grass to her. She finally caught up, slightly out of breath and flushed.

"Hi," she greeted.

The woman had been watching her feet as she walked. She glanced to the side, looking down at the shorter woman. She turned and glanced around her carefully before looking back at Clara.

"I'm late for a lecture." She told her shortly, and then she hurried forward, leaving Clara standing dumbfounded and embarrassed in her wake.

Her next lecture was a nightmare. Literally. Clara was certain she'd had one just like it as a child. Intro to Biomechanics was more like Intro to Hell. She squirmed underneath her lecturer's intense gaze and was sprayed with spit (her punishment for sitting up front). Nothing he said made much sense and he spent a good portion of the lecture yelling about how most of the material of the course should be a "review" for everyone in the class. It was the furthest thing from a review for Clara and, from what she could tell, everyone else in the class. He added insult to injury by giving them all an unexpected quiz at the end with words Clara had never even seen in her life before, much less heard of. And, to top it all off, the lecturer stopped her after she handed him her quiz and asked her if she was in the right place. She felt angry tears burning behind her eyes but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She instead peered firmly at him. "I am. I look forward to Wednesday's lecture." She let the door slam shut behind her and spent the next five minutes in a bathroom stall, trying her hardest not to hyperventilate.

To say she hurried to the bus stop would be an understatement. She all but ran full speed. She hopped on and took the first seat she saw, her fingers running over the paper in her pocket. She still felt upset and knew if one person even dared to ask her if she was okay she'd fall apart. She tried to read some of her readings for Biomechanics, but only three pages in and her head was already aching. She gave up and shoved the textbook back into her bag angrily. She rested her forehead against the cool glass and thought about dropping that class, but that would only prove the lecturer right somehow. No, she'd have to either learn it quickly or somehow get over her stubborn pride, but she was certain that she could learn Biomechanics overnight easier than she could do that.

Once at the park, she spotted the Doctor on their picnic blanket, peering down at his textbook. The sun was making unusual red highlights stand out in his hair, something he would have been thrilled to know. She spotted other women's eyes on him and it didn't surprise her. He was handsome in a striking way that only he could carry. The sight of him made her heart rise and her panic settle and she beamed, yanking her shoes off for the sake of running full-speed across the grass. She let her shoes and bag fall down onto the quilt and he looked up right as she hurdled down into his lap, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. He let out a pleased laugh and hugged her tightly, pressing a couple kisses to her shoulders.

"I can't say anyone's looked that happy to see me in my entire life," he murmured. She could hear the smile in his voice and for once she didn't even want to tease him.

"Well I've never been happier to see anyone in _my_ entire life." She admitted thickly.

His hands grasped her shoulders, pulling her back so he could see her face. He peered at her gently, his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly in concern.

"Oh no," he frowned. "Your lips are all pouty. What happened?"

She tried to pull her lips up into a smile, but she didn't get very far. He reached up and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs.

"Are you okay?" He asked. It was the one question she couldn't handle, so of course he asked it.

"No." She admitted, and then she was pressing her face into his neck and it was all coming out of her. "I'm the only woman in almost every one of my classes and everyone looks at me like I'm lost and I've had at least four people ask me if I was in the wrong place today and everyone looks at me like I'm stupid and maybe I am stupid because I don't understand Biomechanics at all and I think I failed a quiz and I had to sit in the seat with the broken desk!"

His hand- which had been running through her hair comfortingly- stopped moving. He moved back slightly and leaned down to kiss her, holding her close to him afterwards.

"It's just the first day." He soothed. "It'll get better."

She shrugged half-heartedly, still in his arms. The longer she spent there the better she felt. It was like she remembered who she was when she was with him.

"Maybe. I hope so." She muttered. "How has your day been so far?"

He pulled back for the sake of handing her her lunch. She smiled at him gratefully and fell down onto the blanket beside him, opening up the takeout container.

"Good. Ridiculously easy for me, but good." He admitted. "I did some furniture shopping on the internet during anatomy and I think I've found the perfect lamp for our sitting room. Whenever we get a house."

Clara couldn't help but laugh at that, even if she was a bit jealous. She'd barely had time to copy down all her notes much less browse the internet for retro lighting.

"You'll have to show me tonight." She said. She told him all about the rude girl in her Robotics class as they ate, her legs draped casually over his. The cool breeze was brisk and lovely and the sun was warm against her neck. She wanted nothing more than to sit with her husband like this all day.

"Do you think I smell?" She asked him worriedly. "She was very short with me."

The Doctor wrapped his arm around her and swept her hair back over her shoulders, leaning in to press the cool tip of his nose against her neck. He inhaled deeply and then pulled back, peering at her thoughtfully.

"You smell of pomegranates and wild strawberries combined with red ginger, red orchid petals, and gardenia. And just a slight twinge of hinoki wood; very sexy."

Clara stared at him, her mouth slightly open.

"Sometimes your keen sense of smell really freaks me out." She admitted. "But what I meant is do I smell _bad_? Bad enough to make someone run away?"

He leaned back in and took another long whiff. "No way." He decided. He kissed her neck twice. She could feel his smile. "You smell great! I just want to eat you up!"

Clara pulled back from him with her eyebrows raised and smirked, intending on making some coy statement about his poor wording, only to find him smirking right back at her.

"I know precisely what I just said." He informed her lowly. "Perhaps it was a peek at our after-hours agenda." Her eyebrows rose even higher.

"Yowza," she said mischievously, mocking his common phrase. "I guess I can't smell too badly then."

He shifted her closer and laughed, kissing her neck again. "I don't know why anyone in their right mind would run away. I'm intent on holding you here with me forever."

She liked the sound of that more than she'd ever liked the sound of anything else. She sighed wistfully. "I wish I could."

He kissed her neck a final time. "Just make it through today and I'll be waiting at home for you. In my sexy rocket-ship boxers."

Clara tapped his nose teasingly. "You know just what I like."

He grinned. "I do. It's me. You like me."

"Overwhelmingly so." She admitted.

She meant to be brave, but when time came to go their separate ways, it hurt worse than it had that morning. She stalled, bringing up little bits of her day to talk about, but soon they both had to leave or they'd be late for lectures. The Doctor hugged her tightly to his chest.

"If you want to switch to medicine, I promise I won't let anyone be rude to you." The Doctor offered. Clara kissed him with a smile, lowering down with her hands still cupping his face.

"I appreciate that." She told him. "But I'm just going to have to fight it out, I think. I mean it's kind of too late for me to do anything but this."

He took her left hand in his and twisted her wedding ring playfully. "Well, if you're going to have to fight, show them this and tell them your husband's a bodybuilder. Then while they're worried about that, attack them and show them that you're the real threat. Surprise attack!"

She knew he understood that she meant fighting metaphorically. His intent was to make her laugh and it worked well. She looked at him with a straight face for a few seconds and then burst into laughter, suddenly imagining his head on a bodybuilder's frame. When her laughter dwindled down, she took his hands in hers.

"I love you." She told him. He squeezed her hands and smiled back softly.

"I love you more than anything."

She knew it already, but it helped to hear it anyway. She grinned the entire walk to the bus stop.

* * *

Her next lecture went better initially. It was for Intro to Cyber Security and it had been the class Clara was dreading the most. It was a prerequisite for her degree and that was the only reason she'd signed up for it, having no prior interest in it. She had expected to like Robotics the most, but for whatever reason, she was spellbound by the lecture. More surprisingly, she understood it all easier than most everyone else did. It all seemed to come instinctively to her. It helped too that the professor, Professor Grisenko, was a kindly looking man in his 60s who didn't even spare Clara the slightest glance. She appreciated that.

Things went sharply downhill when he asked for a volunteer to demonstrate what they'd just learned on the example computer. Many male hands rose almost lazily into the air, their pencils turning idly between their pointer and middle fingers, and Clara slid just slightly down, thinking that'd keep her out of her professor's sight. But then his eyes were on hers and he was smiling. _Oh dear God, please, no, _Clara groaned internally.

"Mrs. Oswald-Smith?" He asked.

She didn't know what threw her off more. The fact that he addressed her by name on the very first day when there were around a hundred other people in the hall or the fact that he'd obviously hallucinated her raising her hand. She turned behind her instinctively, as if by some chance there was another Oswald-Smith in the room. But of course there wasn't.

There were deep snickers and whispered words as everyone's eyes fell on her. Immediately, she despised the professor.

"Oh, I didn't raise my hand." She called loudly, holding her hands out innocently.

He peered at her with an unmoved expression. "I know."

She had to work to keep a shocked expression from showing on her face. She stared at him for a few seconds, waiting to see if he might say he was kidding, but he didn't. She wouldn't make him ask again. She rose slowly to her feet, mindful to keep her hands from shaking, and walked the lonely and open walk to the front of the lecture hall. The sounds her shoes made were even worse now. She swore she could hear every snicker and every hiss. _They don't matter, they don't matter, they don't matter,_ she reminded herself. But it was easier to say that when you were in an environment you were familiar with with people you knew. She didn't know anything or anyone and felt extremely vulnerable.

She approached the computer at the front, standing still in front of it. She glanced up at Professor Grisenko.

"This is your conflict. You're in charge of maintaining security for an online shop. The files on the main server contain hundreds of thousands of credit card numbers. You've got a tenfold encryption that's practically impossible to hack." He pauses, most likely for dramatic effect. Clara nods and stares up at him with wide eyes, trying her hardest to take all of that in. She felt that some small detail would end up being important to passing whatever kind of test this was. "But someone inside your IT department hacks it from the inside, using the passwords to your own security system. He changes it all to something you don't know and turns it against you. You have to kick him out of the server as quickly as possible to suffer the smallest possible breach in confidentiality. What do you do?"

She could hear the rapid fire whispering of all the other students as they provided their own solutions. Clara thought hard about the lecture, trying to remember what the solution was. She hadn't remembered learning anything about that. She looked up at him helplessly.

"I don't remember." She told him honestly.

She heard jeering laughter behind her. She turned so her back was fully to the class. Professor Grisenko was still looking at her, his face clear of emotion.

"That's because I didn't give you a solution to this in the lecture. You have to make up your own solution." He explained.

_Oh_. Clara felt like an idiot first and panicked next. Her own solution?! It was the first day of lecture! She shifted her weight to her right foot and stuffed her right hand into her pocket, feeling the slip of paper still there. She curled her fingers around it and closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind. She felt like she couldn't think clearly. She'd always hated being put on the spot.

"Well." She started. She stopped. What would she do? "I'd fire the traitor, for starters." She stalled.

Surprisingly, her professor laughed heartily at that. She peeked up at him quickly, just to make sure she was hearing what she thought. His face brightened considerably when stretched with a smile.

"Yes, that's probably the first thing you should do after you get him out." He agreed. His look was piercing again. "But _how_ do you get him out?"

How indeed? Clara was about to suggest something, but then she heard someone say something about "women" in the audience, and her anger was quick to erase all productive thoughts. Professor Grisenko walked around her and stood directly by her side, so his back was to the audience as well.

"Ignore them." He whispered softly to her, where only she could hear. "I know the face of someone who gets it. And you've been getting it the entire lecture. _What do you do_?" He turned back around and paced, his voice lifting in volume once more. "Thousands of people will be highly inconvenienced and your company's reputation will be in shambles if you don't fix it before it gets too far. Clock's ticking, Mrs. Oswald-Smith. What are you going to spend your valuable time doing?"

She drummed her fingers against the tabletop and took a deep breath. And then, all at once, it hit her. She spun around, finding his eyes.

"If I set up a system like that, I'd have to take into consideration human fallibility." She began slowly. He nodded, urging her forward. She nodded and walked over to the computer, pacing just enough to keep her ideas flowing. She thought best while moving. "So. So! I would have prepared a way to reset the system and erase all the data in event of a breach out of my control. I'd have a…I don't know, a big friendly button."

She could hear audible laughter at that, but it wasn't the good kind. She refused to back down from Professor Grisenko's stare. Finally, after staring at her for at least ten seconds, he inclined his head.

"Good starting idea. But what do you do now? You've just deleted all your information."

"My big friendly button doesn't just delete from the main server. It backs it up to a separate one that only I personally have access to." Her mind picked up the pace, her ideas merging together vividly. "A complete data transfer! From breached point A to safe harbor point B. No one knows it ever happened, data's safe, and a rubbish employee gets fired."

The laughter was dimmer now. He smiled at her approvingly.

"Good. Better." He gently set his hands on her shoulders, guiding her in front of the computer. "You have sixty seconds to execute your theory."

She felt like someone had just wrapped their fists around her lungs. She spun around, her face paling.

"Sorry?" She demanded.

He nodded at the computer. "Big friendly button. Make it happen."

She floundered. She edged closer to him and lowered her voice so only he could hear. "But—I don't—this is the first day of lecture!"

He nodded. "I know." He pulled a stopwatch from his pocket and clicked it. The small sound felt like a punch to her gut. "Time's ticking."

_Shit shit shit shit_. Clara turned shakily towards the computer and scanned her eyes over the screen. Only some of the coding made sense to her. Most of it might as well have been another language. She ran her knuckle along her bottom lip, taking measured breaths. Big friendly button. Not a physical big friendly button. It'd have to be a code put in the system obviously. Some sort of trigger word to start the data transfer that only she knew. But in order to do that on this computer she would have had to set that up before! The breach had already started, what could she do now?

She was at a complete loss. He'd acted like her theory was good, but it wasn't even a theory on how to stop it after it started. It was a theory on how to keep it from happening. She was supposed to solve it on the basis that she _hadn't_ set up a big friendly button. What was the main idea behind her big friendly button? Removing the data so someone else couldn't get it. So what was the alternative now?

She stepped up to the keys quickly. She didn't have enough time to be afraid. She couldn't access the data if she was blocked out, true, but she could hack the computer the hacker was hacking from and theoretically sift his incoming data back to her computer and then destroy the main server and—

"Time's up."

Clara shut her eyes tightly, wishing she could just fall right through the floor. She forced herself to take a deep breath and face her professor.

"I know what to do." She told him. "I just need sixty more seconds."

He shook his head. "You don't have another sixty seconds. Thousands of people have had their credit cards accessed by malicious software. You've lost your company an extensive amount of money and valuable customer support."

She peered at him intently. "Sixty more seconds. Please. I can undo it all. Sixty more."

Everyone was looking at her like she was a pathetic fool. She could only imagine what they must have been thinking about her. But she didn't care, because nothing mattered in that moment except the task at hand. She knew what to do. The world had narrowed wonderfully.

She thought he'd say no. But he inclined his head once more. "All right then. Undo it."

She'd learned a good amount about computers in ICT and Computing, but they weren't strictly allowed to each their students how to hack company firewalls. Everything she knew about hacking she'd learned at home with the Doctor by her side. Her first successful hack had been into Tara's encrypted network. She'd gotten right into Ten's laptop and seen things she wished she never had. She resisted the urge to shudder now just thinking about it. This was much harder than Tara's had been, and she knew she was almost out of time. She tried everything she knew and drew forth everything she'd ever learned, actually sweating from the strain of it, and she almost cried out in relief when she suddenly had the other computer in her control. She located the files labeled _Breached Company Files_ and deleted them in the last ten seconds before the professor called for her to stop.

She lowered her hands down, sticking her shaking palms deep into her pockets. She was embarrassed to find that she was slightly out of breath from the sheer suspense and stress of the situation. And no one was saying anything. Her professor moved to the computer and sifted carefully through the data on the screen, his eyebrows furrowed. And then he turned and smiled at Clara.

"They had access to your files for thirty seconds before all traces were eliminated. Congratulations. You get to fire the traitor and you get a promotion, complete with a one-hundred-thousand pound annual raise."

Clara's laugh of relief was slightly shaky. She knew she was smiling hugely but didn't even try to contain it. She nodded at him, shuffling slowly back towards her seat.

She was still too shaken up to rise immediately after class ended. She watched everyone else flee from the room and then slowly stood up, gathering her things. She still felt liable to throw up, but she felt good. She felt like maybe she could succeed in this class. It was definitely something she hadn't felt in any other class today.

She was nearing the door when she heard her professor call her back. She turned anxiously and walked slowly back towards him, her hand finding that slip of paper in her pocket again.

"Yes?" She asked.

He was straightening his papers.

"I've never seen someone solve the problem like that before." He told her. His tone was empty and she wasn't sure if this was a compliment or a criticism. She watched him tersely. "I never expect my students to actually complete it. I make a different student try each day and usually they all fail. Surprisingly, no one's ever thought to install measures to prevent it to ensure it didn't happen in the first place. Love the idea of a big friendly button. It's just simple enough to work. And asking for another sixty seconds to hack into a hacker's computer—and then pulling it off—is just the kind of guts that I need in my department."

She flushed stupidly, his compliment elevated in her mind like it was the highest praise she'd ever received. She wasn't sure what to say. She wanted to thank him for the compliment, but she realized she was still a little irritated with him for calling her out.

"So you just call students up each day and let them publicly humiliate themselves?" She asked.

He lifted an eyebrow. "I wouldn't call what you just endured public humiliation. If anything, everyone in the audience was humiliated for thinking you couldn't do it."

She bristled. "And what makes you think they thought I couldn't do it?"

He offered her a soft smile. It was so unexpected that Clara smiled back without even thinking about it.

"My daughter's a second-year Robotics major. I know exactly how they've been treating you today. The department has started a Women in Science program to try and balance out the percentages, but it just hasn't caught on yet."

Her realization was slow and warming. "You called me up first to show them I was serious."

"I called you up first because you started getting it first. And because I didn't want you to endure their condescending looks for another two weeks before you realized that you just had to embarrass the shit out of them to get them to take you seriously. Although now they'll probably fear you."

She was absurdly touched. Maybe it was just because he was the only professor to treat her like a normal student all day long, but she could have hugged him she was so relieved.

"Thank you, Professor Grisenko." She said sincerely. "It's been a hellish day and it was nice to actually enjoy a lecture."

He beamed at that. "You didn't think I talked too quickly? Did I spit on anyone in the front row, do you think? I've been working on that."

She laughed and crossed her arms, feeling safe enough to let go of the piece of paper in her pocket. "No, I don't think you spat on anyone. But I was out of the spit-zone, so who knows? But as for your speaking pace, it was wonderful. Very casual and efficient."

He nodded, pleased. "Casual and efficient. That's what I've been going for! I'd ask you to sit up front next lecture to observe the spitting firsthand, but I've now begun selfishly attempting to persuade you to consider pursing my graduate program in Computing and Security, so I wouldn't want that to run you off."

She hadn't given her post undergrad plans a passing thought and she definitely didn't plan to anytime soon. Not after the day she had today. She wasn't even sure if she was going to make it a semester much less to her master's. But she smiled anyway.

"Well, it's only my first day, but I'm much more likely to pick Computing and Security than Biomechanics. That much I know for sure."

He finished stuffing his folders into his briefcase and picked it up, moving towards the door. Clara adjusted her bag and followed.

"Just wait 'till Wednesday's lecture. You'll be coming to my office for pamphlets in no time." He teased. Clara grinned back.

"I guess I'll see you then." She said. He shuffled his briefcase to his other arm and shut the lecture hall door behind them.

"Good job today, Clara." He said.

She nodded again, her smile still on her face, and then began walking from the building. She pulled her phone free from her bag as soon as she walked outside and began punching in the Doctor's number, only to have her phone light up with a call from him. She answered it eagerly.

"Hi!" She greeted.

"Are you joining me in the land of povidone-iodine and latex?" He asked.

She laughed and finished zipping her bag shut, returning it to her shoulder.

"I can't tell if you're asking me if I'm switching to medicine or proposing some kinky sex thing." She admitted.

"What would the answer be to both of those things?" He teased.

"A no to switching to medicine. A very strong maybe to the kinky sex thing." She replied.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Okay. Good to know for future reference. Anyway, are you on your way home yet? I tried to phone right at three because I thought that was when your lecture ended, but you didn't pick up."

That reminded her of her successful class and that made her smile. "Actually, I stayed behind. I was talking to the professor."

"Talking? As in getting yelled at or shagging him? Because it's a little early in the year to be shagging professors. I might turn a blind eye in November, but it's only the first day."

She'd taken out her water bottle to take a sip, but it was a big mistake. She began choking and laughing, accidentally spraying water all down the front of her dress. She took a few seconds to clear her lungs and then she took a few deep breaths, wiping the water from her chin.

"Christ, Doctor, just talking! I'll tell you about it when I get home. You can't say hilarious things when I'm drinking water." She scolded lightly. "Now I've got it all over my dress."

"You don't need the dress at home. It's undies night." He informed her. "I'm making us dinner as we speak. In my rocket-ship boxers. As promised."

Clara grinned. She sat down at the bench at the bus stop, adjusting her bag so she was holding it securely in her lap.

"And only those, I hope." She teased. But then something occurred to her. "Hey! You had your psychology class at three!"

She heard a sharp intake of breath and then the hissing of what could only be steam from boiling water.

"Did you burn yourself?" She demanded, shifting slightly in concern. She heard a few muffled curses in the background and then the clattering of pots. He returned a second later.

"Maybe a tiny bit. It's fine. Definitely just a first degree." He let out another screech. "OR MAYBE NOW A SECOND!"

She stood up as if she could run to him and save him from the boiling water. She realized how stupid that was and sat back down a moment later.

"You know what? It's really early to be making dinner. Just…wait. Wait in the bedroom. We can make it together. In our undies." She suggested. "And I'm still waiting for an explanation as to how you can be in two places at once, because you definitely had a lecture at three today."

"Oh yeah. Didn't go." He said.

She lifted an eyebrow even though he couldn't see her.

"You didn't go." She repeated flatly.

"Mmhmm. Thought about it. But then I got bored, and if just thinking about it made me bored, can you even imagine how boring actually going would have been?"

She pressed her fingers to her temples. "Oh Doctor. Why do I get the feeling this degree is going to be like dragging you up a mountain by your front teeth?"

"Ouch. Rough comparison." He replied. He cursed again, the word punctuated by the sound of falling metal. "Okay! You're distracting me; I've got to go put out this fire."

"What?! _What_ fire?!" Clara demanded sharply.

"Ah—gotta go. The curtains actually _are _flammable! We wondered that, remember? Bye. Love you."

She was left clutching her phone, listening to the dial tone with her mouth held agape. She closed it with a heavy sigh and flung it into her bag, her heart pounding. The Doctor in a kitchen with a fire and burning curtains. Not a good combination. If he got himself killed she was going to be very cross with him.

She hadn't noticed she was biting her thumbnail anxiously until someone fell down onto the bench beside her and tapped her shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

Clara spared the person a momentarily glance. It was a girl around her age in running shorts and a tanktop. She'd pulled her earbuds out and was peering at Clara quizzically, her blonde hair pulled back into a sweaty ponytail.

"Fine." Clara muttered distractedly. "I'm fine. Thanks."

The girl nodded. "Yeah, all right. It's no problem. You're the girl from my Robotics class, right?"

Clara did a double-take at that. The girl she remembered from her Robotics class was cold and fierce. The girl staring at her now was, well, sweet. She was smiling kindly at Clara, her posture relaxed like she spoke to her every day. Clara was finding it difficult to merge the two images in her mind.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah." She turned towards the other girl, folding her hands in her lap to keep herself from biting at her nail anymore. "Did you…change clothes?"

They both knew very well that she had. But Clara couldn't make sense of the girl. It was like she was a completely different person.

She nodded, her ponytail bouncing. "I always go on a run after my classes. I took up running last year and it's been great help with my aggression. I used to leave campus wanting to squeeze someone's neck until their eyes popped out like in a cartoon, but not anymore! I'm all about positive energy now."

Clara stared at her for a moment and then laughed. It was uncertain though, because she didn't know if the girl was serious or joking or both. When she laughed along with Clara, Clara decided she was probably an interesting combination of the two.

"I might have to take up running myself then, because I definitely got that urge once or twice today." Clara admitted.

The girl's smile faded to an understanding grimace. "It's your first day?" She surmised kindly.

Clara nodded. "I didn't expect it to be so…"

She stopped. She didn't know how to explain it beyond saying that it was cold, because had been cold. Overwhelmingly so.

"I know." She told her, her blue eyes wide. "I remember feeling sick my first week. It was awful. Everyone kept asking me if I was lost."

Clara laughed and leaned towards her, nodding empathetically.

"They asked me that too! At least a dozen times today. Like I'm too stupid to even find my way to the right building."

The other girl laughed with her. "Yeah and then how they set their hands gentle on your shoulder like—" she set her palm on Clara's shoulder and tucked her chin, lowering her voice. "'I can walk you to the Humanities department if you'd like, I'm headed that way anyway'. Like they're such big heroes."

The two girls laughed together, the blonde's hand still on Clara's shoulder. She didn't even seem to find it odd that it was there, and it was that familiar affection that had Clara asking her next question.

"Did I do something wrong today?" She asked. "I mean—everyone just kind of looked at me like I…I dunno, had a scarlet A on my dress. And today when I said hi to you, you didn't really…"

She trailed off uncertainly. The blonde's mouth turned down into a small frown.

"I'm sorry about today. It's just, if they see me talking to you, it'll just make things twenty times worse for you tomorrow. They'd think you were too intimidated by them to approach them, so you'd approached the only woman, and it wouldn't have done you any favors. Trust me." She explained. She then glanced down at Clara's attire, lowering her hand back to her own lap. "I think your outfit is beautiful, but don't be surprised if you have to work twice as hard as me to be treated half as seriously."

It was blunt and Clara appreciated it. She didn't like to play guessing games. She looked down at her dress and sighed.

"I guess I'm just going to have to work twice as hard. Because I've spent way too much money on my current wardrobe to redo it all over again."

The woman smiled. "I can respect that. I can respect that a lot. Wear what you want. You'll get there eventually, once they realize you aren't a lost and confused drama student."

Clara grimaced. "I felt like a lost and confused drama student today in Biomechanics." She admitted. "What a nightmare."

Her classmate groaned loudly. "Biomechanics! With Simeon?"

"Yeah." She admitted sourly.

"Awful. Just awful. Aim for a C and pray."

Clara felt her heart drop. "Oh lovely," she said sarcastically.

The girl laughed. "You'll be okay. That is, if everything's okay with you. I heard you yell something about a fire?"

Clara was taken aback at first by the blunt question. She didn't think she would have asked a stranger about something she heard them saying on a private phone call. But she found herself offering up the story easily.

"My husband." She explained. "He's got these limbs and I swear it's like he can't even control them half the time. Mind you, his hands are wonderful, he's got surgeon hands—he's a med student—and he's got surprising command over those, but his _limbs!_" She sighed in exasperation and shook her head. "Anyway, he's set the kitchen on fire while trying to make dinner. I believe he said it spread to the curtains."

The woman's expression went from shocked to horrified. Clara was getting ready to explain that the Doctor setting something on fire wasn't really a huge deal because it happened frequently, but what came out of her mouth next wasn't anything Clara expected.

"Husband? You're _married_?" Her eyes narrowed in on Clara's wedding ring, widening noticeably. "How old are you?! Blimey, I can't even be bothered to say yes to second dates. How long have you two been married?"

"For our whole entire lives." Clara replied immediately. "At least that's what it feels like."

"I can't tell if that's romantic or horrible." The girl admitted. Clara laughed.

Their conversation was ended by the arrival of the bus. They both stood, the other girl edging towards the sidewalk to continue her run and Clara towards the bus to head home to the Doctor.

"Well, thanks for the chat." She told her. "It was nice to meet you. I'm Clara, by the way. Clara Oswald-Smith."

The girl nodded with a grin. "Charlotte Grisenko. Charlotte Grisenko-DiCaprio if I had it my way."

Clara immediately thought of Professor Grisenko. So _this_ was his daughter. She could see the resemblance already.

"I don't know, it's quite the mouthful." Clara teased. "Charlotte Grisenko sounds complete on its own."

She beamed. "Hey, thanks! I think so too!"

Clara climbed up the stairs, turning to give her a wave. "I guess I'll see you on Wednesday?"

Charlotte nodded, pushing her earbuds back into her ears. "I'll save you a seat with a working desk."

Clara's embarrassed groan was cut off by the closing bus doors.

* * *

The Doctor greeted her in his rocket-ship boxers as promised, but his hair was smoking.

"Oh my stars," Clara breathed, peeking past him into the flat. She could see billows of gray smoke in the air. She hurriedly began swatting at the Doctor's singed hair, as if there might still be a flame. He cringed away from her hands.

"I'm clean! I'm clean!" He hurriedly said. "No fire!"

She looked at him doubtfully.

"…Anymore. No fire anymore." He clarified sheepishly.

She sighed and pushed him back into the flat, hurrying to make sure all the windows were open (they were) and that he hadn't burned himself anywhere else (he had). She kissed the angry red marks on his palms, the corners of her mouth turned down into a frown.

"I was just bragging about your hands today and now look what happens." She said sadly. "Does it hurt?"

He shrugged. "Not too bad. It's not going to scar or impair my handling, at least." He paused, giving her a cocky grin. "You were bragging about my hands? What'd you say?"

She smacked his shoulder. "That you're a clumsy idiot who insists on scaring me to death by setting yourself on fire!"

He looked at her in confusion. "What's that got to do with my hands?"

She pulled him in for an unexpected hug, clutching him tightly to her. He smelled of smoke and burnt basil.

"I'm really happy to see you is all, and I'd be even happier if I saw you without singed hair and skin."

He kissed her head. "I'm fine. I'm tough. Bodybuilder, remember?"

She rolled her eyes. She pulled back and looked up at him. "I made a friend today and my professor told me I did a good job in class. This calls for celebratory sex and ice cream."

He grinned wickedly. "Sex and ice cream together? Or separate?"

She patted his burnt hands. "Together. You need some cooling down after your fire fun."

He poked her nose. "That's kinda kinky, Mrs. Smith."

"_Oswald_-Smith, and you have no idea." She winked. He chuckled happily and threw his hands up into the air.

"Let the undies night begin!"

She could only wonder what their neighbors on the other side of the paper-thin wall thought of them. But finally, for the first time that day, she just didn't care.


	11. Paternity

_shaking resolves, sibling rivalries, and the art of decision making_

* * *

He was called in at midnight in the middle of one of the worst storms he'd ever seen. It'd taken him ten minutes to get to the hospital, two to scrub up, and one to realize that it was hopeless. It was a young wife, eight months pregnant, still in a blue cocktail dress with her lipstick fresh. Her shoes were off, and the Doctor didn't know if they'd fallen off sometime during the crash, or if she'd taken them off halfway through the night, her arches sore beyond belief. Perhaps she'd been looking forward to going home and sleeping. The Doctor didn't know the specifics of their crash. All he knew was that the woman was brain dead, the baby was dead, and he had to be the one to face the husband.

He tried everything he knew for an hour, which was forty minutes longer than the surgical staff wanted to keep at it. They recognized in five minutes what he had in one: that it was hopeless. But how did you look a man in the eye and tell him that his entire family was dead in only an hour, that everything he'd hoped for had vanished, and that you'd given up because it was hopeless? You couldn't. And so the Doctor did all he could for as long as he could, but in the end, they were both gone. Her head was smashed to pieces, windshield glass lodged deep into her cranium. The only reason they'd called him in was because she'd said something about the weather when they put her into the ambulance. _It's quite cold now_, she'd said, and so they'd thought she was still in there. But perhaps wherever she was headed was cold, because she was not inside her own head. The Doctor knew because he'd been inside of it. All there was was destruction. She died on the operating table, just short of dead already.

He was shaking as he lowered his surgical mask and pushed his way out of surgery. He leaned against the hallway wall and gasped, struggling to come to terms with the idea that he had to be the strong one now. He had to be the emotionless rock who imparted the facts to the man who would never forget a word of what he said. Who would replay it night after night. Who would never be the same because of it. He hadn't hit their car and made it crash, and he'd done all he could, but being the bearer of the news almost felt just as heavy. To that man, it wouldn't matter that he'd forced the entire staff to stay forty minutes later than they needed at midnight on a Friday night. That wouldn't seem like enough to him, because his wife wasn't back and his baby was gone and nothing would seem like enough ever again.

He rubbed his face with his hands and stood, squaring his shoulders and making his way to the waiting lobby, where her husband was probably praying. Hoping. Thinking that surely she'd come out of it, because this kind of stuff happened to other people, but surely not him. Not his family. The Doctor knew the things he was thinking because they were what he thought anytime something happened to Clara or one of his children. He was just blessed to have always been right.

He was easy to spot. He was a shaking mass in the far corner, his attempts at composure falling just short of hysteria. He stood when he spotted the Doctor, his face so pale it almost had a greenish tint to it. The Doctor approached him slowly, feeling his own disturbed expression on his face, but making no move to mask it. He stopped in front of the man, who stood on two shaking legs, and resisted the urge to cry himself.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Harley." He whispered. He winced when the disbelief in the man's eyes faded to blame, to anger. Mr. Harley shook his head.

"No. Why are you sorry? Why are you sorry?" He gasped.

The Doctor was finding it so difficult to look into his eyes, because he understood that had one tiny thing been different, those could have been his own eyes. And that fact was nothing short of paralyzing.

"There's nothing we could do. Her brain was damaged beyond repair. She passed away a few minutes ago." He said softly.

The man shook his head and oddly laughed, his eyes drifting past the Doctor's shoulder towards the door, like he was waiting for his wife to walk through.

"No." He said. He laughed again. "No, it's April fools' day. First of April."

The Doctor stared at him, his stomach twisting and pulling to the point of nausea. The man was still staring at the door, like he expected his wife to walk through and proclaim "April fool!".

"I'm so sorry." He repeated, because he didn't know what else to say. What else was there to say?

The man's eyes slowly returned to his own. He was quivering.

"No." He repeated. He shook his head again for added emphasis and then backed up so his legs smacked hard into the chair. He began sinking down, like he was folding in on himself underneath the weight of that knowledge, underneath the weight of what his life would look like for the rest of his time here on earth. "No. _Please_. Please tell me you're joking."

The Doctor shook his head tightly. He watched as the man began gasping again. He stared down at the floor with wide eyes for a moment, his hand finding his throat, and then he looked back up at the Doctor.

"And my son?"

The Doctor was finding it difficult to breathe himself.

"Dead on arrival. The blows the fet—the baby sustained were too massive and too many." He told him quietly.

The man didn't move except to grip his knees tightly. The Doctor couldn't breathe around the man's sorrow. Mr. Harley struggled to breathe for a full minute, his eyes darting around the room nervously as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. He looked back up at the Doctor then.

"Why couldn't you save her?" He wanted to know.

Why indeed? The Doctor knew the medical reasons. But why on earth couldn't he have been allowed to save this one woman, just this one time? Why couldn't she have lived? Why did she have to die like this, senselessly and pointlessly? There was no logic to death. There was only greedy hands and lustful taking.

"The damage was too severe. We did all we could." He repeated.

He could feel the man's blame, even if he hadn't voiced it yet. He was going to ask why his entire life and, currently, he had a scapegoat to blame. The Doctor wouldn't have asked him to see him as a person too in this moment, because he couldn't even begin to imagine the things he himself would have said to a surgeon had someone told him that Clara and one of his children were dead. He knew he would have done terrible things. Things he'd be ashamed of for the rest of his life. So he granted the man a pass.

Perhaps he was a better person than the Doctor was, because where the Doctor expected blind rage, he received instead empty gasps.

"But I was driving the car." The man admitted, his tone tortured like he was admitting to a grave, predetermined crime. He gripped his knees tighter and rocked slightly, his body curving in. "I was driving."

Well, if anyone could understand self-hatred, it was the Doctor.

He touched the man's shoulder gently, like they taught them how to do in school to offer quiet compassion.

"It isn't your fault. These things just happen. I know that doesn't make it any better. But…there was nothing you could have done."

The man looked up at him, the blame now sharp in his eyes. "There was nothing I could have done? There was so much I could have done! I could have—I could have taken another route! I could have left ten minutes earlier or later! I could have insisted we didn't go to the party in the first place!" His first sob was ragged and tearing. It ripped through both of them. "I could have stopped this so easily, had only I known! Why didn't I know? God, why didn't I know?!"

He wept and the Doctor watched for a minute, his own heart aching. He kept his hand on his shoulder for a moment longer and then stood, knowing he had to leave that moment before he himself cried too.

"There are cards for our grief counselor on that table." He told him, per regulation. He wanted to say he was sorry again, but what meaning did his apology have to the man who just lost everything?

His feet were heavy as he hurried to the lockers. He hardly remembered showering. He only knew the stinging of his skin, raw from scrubbing, when he was pulling his pajamas he'd traveled in back on and the cold slap of the night rain on his neck as he hurried from the hospital.

He pressed his face against the cold and vibrating glass the entire bus ride. By the time he was nearing the bus stop closest to his house, his nose was completely numb. But he hadn't cried.

He had sprinted through the storm on his way to the hospital, but now he was walking. He counted each flash of lightning and each rumble of thunder, his heart somehow contained inside some sort of icy prism that made it ache just enough to keep him docile. That was until he spotted his house and Lottie's bicycle and Miles' stroller and Ellabella's skates and Bristol's swords, scattered haphazardly on the small front lawn, shining in the moonlight underneath the sheen of wetness from the rain. And then he was running so hard himself that he almost slipped in the puddles a few times.

He couldn't get the key into the lock the first couple of times he tried, thanks to the torrential downpour. His heart was crawling up his throat in panic, even though he knew his family was safe inside. He was suddenly thinking about what it would be like if they weren't, and that was too terrible to do anything for but resist the urge to scream. When he finally swung the door open, he immediately calmed, because he could hear the faint sound of Clara's voice reading something aloud to the children. He briefly wondered what they were doing awake—but then a particularly deafening peal of thunder shook the mirror hanging on the foyer wall, and he understood. He set his keys down carefully on the side table, shutting the door and relocking it tightly. He hung his rain jacket on the hook and kicked off his boots, his heart still too swollen with pain to make breathing as easy as it should have been.

He padded down the long hallway, his wet pajama bottoms dripping onto his previously-dry socks, and stuck his head in Lottie's bedroom first. When he saw her blankets pulled back and no one in her bed, he felt his heart stop for a moment in time, until he realized she was probably in his and Clara's bed. He stuck his head in the other three children's rooms, his suspicions confirmed when he saw all their beds (and cribs) empty as well.

He attempted to flip the hallway light on to announce his arrival, because the thunder was too loud and frequent for Clara to have heard the door opening, but when he flipped the switch nothing happened. He paused and stuck his head into the girls' bathroom, flipping that switch as well, but the house remained shadowed. He resisted the urge to groan. The power was out for the third time in the past week. The series of storms hitting the area were unseasonal and unprecedented, and the power companies were having a difficult time weathering them.

He followed the faint rhythm of his wife's voice, pushing his bedroom door open slowly. She gave a brief start when it opened all the way, her startled expression shadowed from the dim yellow light of the lantern and emergency candles, but then she beamed happily. She was nursing Miles in the arm chair, his head cradled gently in her right hand and a children's book held opened in her left. His tiny body barely reached the end of her right forearm. When he kicked his feet periodically, his socked feet brushed her bicep, but only just slightly. He'd been the smallest baby of the four and he hadn't grown much in the week he'd been home from the hospital.

The Doctor's eyes traveled automatically to their king sized bed, where, sure enough, all three were curled up in the middle. Lottie was intertwined with Bristol, his small hand gripping her nightgown in fear, and Ellabell was lying beside the Doctor's side of the bed with both her arms latched around his pillow, like it was a huge teddy bear. All their eyes were shut, but when their mother's voice broke off, they began stirring uneasily. She started reading again, noticing the lapse in their snoozing, and the Doctor leaned against the wall for a moment. His heart lightened bit by bit until it was finally easy to inhale and exhale. He no longer felt like something heavy was curled up in the bottom of his heart, pressing down into his lungs. He stared at the way the dim light shone on his wife's hair and the way Lottie's nose was scrunched up, his lips lifting slightly. His family was okay. He didn't know why or how, or who he needed to thank for that miracle, but they were okay. And that was what mattered.

He felt Clara's eyes on him for a moment as she turned the page, and when he met her eyes, he saw the sudden concern in hers. She'd seen something broadcasted on his face that he hadn't meant to show. Bristol whined in his sleep and she turned distractedly back to the page—_("'But the wild things cried—'") _but then she was glancing back up at the Doctor, trying to read his expression. From his place against the wall, he offered her a shaky smile and finished the page from memory.

"'Oh please don't go—we'll eat you up—we love you so!'" He cried, using the deep growly voice he always used for the monsters. Bristol, the most awake of the three, noticed the shift in voices first. Lottie mumbled a sleepy "_you're gettin' good at that, Mummy"_ , still half in her dreams, and Ellabell was out of it. But Bristol knew. He sat straight up, tearing himself from his sister's arms, and laughed joyfully.

"Daddy!" He said, as he struggled to free himself from the blankets and race towards his father. The Doctor hurried to the end of the bed and met the stumbling toddler half way, lifting him up into his arms in a tight hug. He pressed a kiss to his freshly washed hair and swung him a few times, letting out a happy chuckle of his own.

"Hi, Bristol!" He said softly. "Did the storm scare you?"

Bristol pulled back and looked at his father seriously. "I have been a big baby."

The Doctor shot Clara an amused look and looked back at his son. "Oh really? A bigger baby than Miles?"

The toddler turned to his newborn brother with a reproachful look. He wasn't getting on well with him so far, mainly because he was intensely jealous of all the time Miles was spending with his mother, due to the fact that he had to eat every three hours. It had taken two days for Bristol to understand that his mother couldn't play pirates and soldiers while also nursing. He was still pretty peeved about it.

"No one's a bigger baby than that baby." He said hatefully.

"Oi," Clara scolded lightly. "He's your brother and you love him."

Bristol stuck his tongue out at her. She lifted her eyebrows threateningly and he quickly pulled it back into his mouth. "Do not! I do not love him! He's a big baby."

The Doctor poked Bristol's tummy. "Well, I just heard you've been being a big baby too so you two should get on just fine."

"A big baby club." Clara added. Bristol stuck his tongue out at her again and looked at the Doctor.

"Will _you_ play pirates and soldiers with me?" He pleaded. The Doctor wished he had the energy, but the night had worn him down. He felt liable to fall asleep standing. He kissed the top of Bristol's head and set him back down onto the bed.

"I wish I could, soldier. I'm exhausted. Daddy's been a big baby tonight, too." He admitted.

Bristol looked at him with wide eyes. "Did you wee you were so scared? Like I did?"

The Doctor smiled sadly at Bristol, glad that he was too young to understand that sometimes things were so scary that they weren't even scary at all. They were just miserable.

"No, can't say that I did." He answered. He leaned down and kissed the top of Bristol's head again before walking over to the corner Clara was in. He sat on the edge of the chair and leaned down, kissing her gently. He carefully picked up one of Miles' tiny feet and kissed the bottom of it too. When he looked up, Clara was looking at him in concern once more.

"Do you want me to put them back in their beds?" She asked. He knew she was really asking if he needed to talk about what had happened (or cry about it). He thought he had, but suddenly he just wanted to move forward. He wanted to forget that man's sorrow and revel in his own miracle.

"No. I want them with us." He admitted. He leaned down and set his forehead against her shoulder for a moment, partially from weariness and partially so he could explain himself without Bristol or half-awake Lottie hearing. "A young woman died tonight. And her baby. She left her husband all alone."

Clara let the book fall into her lap and reached up with her left hand, gently tracing the back of his neck. He turned his face to the side and kept his eyes shut, taking a moment to let her comfort him.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "But don't worry. You know you can't escape us that easily. Your family isn't going anywhere."

He smiled into her shoulder, but he was sure it was likely that that woman had said the same words to her husband. He kissed her one more time and smiled down at Miles before stepping into the bathroom to change into a dry pair of pajamas.

When he entered the bedroom again, Clara was up from the chair, a drowsy and well-fed Miles peering tiredly up at her. The Doctor beamed excitedly.

"My turn!" he said happily, hurrying forward to take the newborn from his wife's arms. He cradled his son's tiny body to his chest, feeling his soul uncurl with joy. It was too early to tell with any certainty, but the Doctor thought Miles might get his green eyes. Lottie and Bristol had Clara's and Ellabell had his, so Miles would even the green to brown ratio in their family. Not to mention that he was the only one of their children who got Clara's brilliant nose, and that was a cause of supreme joy for the Doctor each time he looked at his baby.

"You're so beautiful, yes you are," he cooed at Miles, tracing his finger down his tiny nose. He heard Bristol groaning in annoyance.

"Not you too!" He whined. He heard Bristol let out a shriek of elated surprise a moment later, and when he looked up from Miles, he saw Clara had lifted Bristol up off the bed by his ankles.

"Ar! What's this soldier doin' on my ship!" She hissed, bouncing Bristol up and down. The Doctor smiled at the look of pure joy that covered Bristol's face.

"It's I!" He cried quickly, as if fearing a slow response would make his mother stop playing with him. "It is I, Captain Bristol, London's finest soldier! I've come to arrest you!"

Clara met the Doctor's eyes and looked away, biting back laughter.

"You'll hafta catch me first!" She said. She let go of his ankles and sent him crashing onto the bed, taking off from the bedroom quickly. Bristol rolled right off the bed and took off after her as fast as his short legs would carry him. The Doctor heard him thundering towards the kitchen and Clara stuck her head back into the room a second later.

"You might want to wake up Ellabell. She was crying for you when she woke up and wouldn't stop until she had your pillow." She informed him. She saluted him after that. "Gotta hide from the soldier. Blimey, I hope he finds me quickly, or I might fall asleep in my hiding place…"

The Doctor shook his head in amused disbelief as she turned from the room, heading somewhere to hide from their son. He knew Bristol would pass out after only one round of catch-the-pirate, but he didn't understand how Clara could even move after going a week only sleeping for three hours at a time. He supposed the pain on Bristol's face was an incentive.

He kissed Miles forehead and brushed his fingers over his dark hair. He wished he got to spend more time with him. Being the hospital's primary neurosurgeon wasn't worth it a lot of the time. Especially on nights like this. He dreamed sometimes of quitting and opening his own pediatrics practice, but he'd spent so long becoming qualified for this that it seemed almost idiotic to quit right when he got the job he'd actually been training for for years and years. But he'd be a liar if he didn't admit he was sometimes foolhardy and sensitive enough to wish for it.

He settled Miles into the swinging crib beside their bed, turning it on to help lull him to sleep. It began rocking back and forth slowly, and before the Doctor had even turned away, Miles' eyelids were already drooping.

He walked around the bed and sat on his side, scooting over beside Ellabell's sleeping form. He gently tugged his pillow from her grasp and lifted her up into his arms, smoothing her soft hair back from her forehead. She sighed and yawned, blinking awake slowly. She leaned back the minute she was awake, staring up at the Doctor with the most relieved smile he'd ever seen. The happiness on her face at the sight of him warmed his heart to the core.

"Daddy! My Daddy! I'm so glad you're home," she told him sweetly, latching her arms around his neck. She hugged him tight and he wrapped his arms around her, kissing the side of her head.

"I missed you, sweetheart." He told her. She sniffed against his neck.

"I was scared 'cause the windows were shaking." She whispered. "Did the storm blow someone away? Is that why you left?"

The fear and apprehension in her voice was unparalleled. Ever since she was small, Ellabell had had a strange and inexplicable fear of strong winds. She was terrified of tornados and hurricanes, of the car windows being rolled down on the motorway, of any type of amusement ride that went too fast. She wouldn't even swing high on swingsets. Clara and the Doctor had spent years trying to figure out what they could have done to make her so terrified of it, but they'd never found the root of her fear. Needless to say, this fear made storms all the worse for her.

He gave in to his exhaustion and laid back, reaching back briefly to put his pillow back where it should have been. He let out a sigh of contentment when he was finally lying down, cocooned by the soft and cool bedding.

"It didn't blow anyone away." He reassured her. He reached down and pulled the blankets up over them, pulling them right up to Ellabell's shoulders. She was still lying across his chest and he didn't intend on making her move. He rubbed her back and kissed her head again. "The wind isn't as scary as it seems. It's the rain that's scarier."

She thought about that for a few moments. "'Cause it can flood places?"

"Sure. And it can make cars crash." He told her.

He hadn't realized Lottie had woken up until he heard her small voice.

"Did someone get hurt in a car crash?" She asked. The Doctor turned and looked at her, smiling at her disheveled hair. Her bangs were sticking almost straight out from her head at a ninety-degree angle. He pulled his right hand off Ellabell's back and extended his arm for Lottie, who wasted no time sliding across the sheets and curling up against his side, her head pillowed on his arm.

"Yes." He told them truthfully. He pressed his face against Lottie's head and kissed her to ward away the sadness that was beginning to overtake him again.

"Did you save 'em?" Ellabell wondered tiredly. She asked it as someone might as a question they already knew the answer to, like she had no doubt in her mind that he had saved them, and it broke the Doctor's heart. Part of him wanted to lie to her to keep her in a world where her dad could fix everything there was, but he knew it was important for her to understand that he couldn't. No matter how hard he tried.

He rested his head back against his pillow and frowned up at the ceiling.

"No, Ellie." He admitted. "Not this time."

He could feel Lottie's sleepy eyes on him.

"They died?" She asked quietly. "Did you see it?"

He turned and met her dark eyes, full of curiosity just as her mother's had been at that age. He could have told her that he'd seen two people die when he was only her age, that he'd seen many people die by now, that it wasn't shocking anymore. That he no longer stared at them and tried to pinpoint the minute they'd disappeared from inside their own bodies. But instead he smoothed the blankets over her and smiled.

"It was peaceful." He lied. He switched the subject quickly. "Were you scared of the storm too, Lottie? Normally you're our brave girl."

She scoffed. "I was not scared even a tiny, little bit! Bristol dragged me from my bed because he was so scared he wee-weed."

He laughed and closed his eyes for a moment. "That sounds more like my Lottie."

Bristol's small feet made impossibly loud noises as he ran towards them. He jumped up onto the bed, giggling hysterically as he ran from the "rogue pirate".

"Daddy was a big baby tonight too!" He shared with his sisters, still out of breath. Clara came in the doorway a moment later, her cheeks pink from running. The Doctor thought he hadn't seen her look more carefree in a long while, and that made him smile. She sat on the edge of the bed and reached forward, grabbing Bristol's legs as he squirmed. He squealed as she pressed kisses to his face, howling something about "pirate kisses", and then he latched onto her in a sudden and warm hug.

"I love you," he told her happily. She kissed his forehead and grinned at him.

"And I love you. Even if you're a soldier." She promised.

He furrowed his brow. "As much as you love _The Big Baby_?"

He said the title like you'd pronounce the word to something distinctly disgusting. Lottie heaved a tired sigh and pulled the blanket up to her ears.

"Has he been like this all day?" The Doctor hissed to his eldest.

Lottie groaned. "Oh yeah!"

Clara was frowning when the Doctor looked back up at her. She pulled Bristol back against her chest and held him close.

"Just as much. Why would you even ask that?" She questioned. "I thought you understood that Miles is a baby and needs me all the time."

The Doctor spoke up. "You were once a tiny baby too, Bristol, and Mummy spent just as much time with you and your sisters were pretty cross about it."

"Was not." Ellabell insisted immediately. The Doctor looked at her in slight surprise, as he thought she'd drifted off to sleep already.

"Stupid baby." Bristol replied quietly and angrily. It seemed their reasonable arguments fell on deaf, emotionally volatile ears. "Stupid Mummy hogging baby. Oh man, he is such a fatty, he eats so much. I don't like him."

Clara closed her eyes and took a deep, measured breath. The Doctor suppressed his immature desire to laugh at his son's brief monologue. Clara looked at him sharply even though he hadn't laughed, like she knew he wanted to. Which he did.

"He's a _baby_," she explained for what sounded like the millionth time, judging by her exasperated tone. "His tummy digests quickly. That means his food gets used up really fast."

Bristol's face twisted unhappily. "Then maybe he should eat Grandpa's turkey because I never feel hungry after that, oh man! Not at all."

The Doctor briefly rued the day they'd ever let Bristol watch that cartoon with the fox who said _Oh, man!_ Bristol added it into his dialogue like punctuation. Clara looked at the Doctor helplessly. He shifted Ellabell slightly and looked at Bristol, trying to keep his humor from showing.

"He can't eat turkey. He would choke. He has no teeth and he doesn't know how to swallow solids." The Doctor provided. "Remember when Lottie got the flu and had to eat chicken broth for days?" Bristol nodded slowly. "It's like that. Only it's not chicken broth, it's milk. Which one could argue is much worse, so feel bad for the little bloke."

Bristol thought hard about that. "No Jammie Dodgers?"

The Doctor nodded fervently. "No Jammie Dodgers. Nothing but milk."

Bristol turned and looked towards the bedside crib. "I guess that's kinda bad."

Clara latched onto his slight sympathy. "And he can't even sit up by himself. Or walk. Or run and play pirates and soldiers."

Bristol frowned. "Hmm." He tapped his chin. He looked back up at his mother. "Maybe when he eats I could sit with you two and play with him."

Clara's look of relief was extreme. "Yes, that would be great! You could read him some books."

Bristol liked to "read" books he had memorized. He nodded seriously.

"Yes that would be good maybe."

The Doctor caught Clara's eye and he couldn't help it. He started laughing, and maybe it was because he'd felt so low all night, but once he started he had a hard time stopping. Clara's look of reproach faded to her own reluctant laughter, and soon all three were giggling. The Doctor even heard Lottie and Ellabell give a few tired giggles, even though he was certain they were at least half a sleep by now.

When the laughter dwindled, the Doctor stared at the dark circles underneath Clara's eyes and tried to give her a break. While she walked over to the crib to check on Miles, he broke the bad news to Bristol.

"Bristol, it's bedtime now, okay? You can sleep in here but you need to let Mummy sleep."

Bristol pulled on Clara's arm, his movements a little weighed down with exhaustion (finally). "I want to sleep beside you, Mummy."

The Doctor thought that Clara probably wanted at least an hour without a child latched onto her, but she pulled him into her arms and slid them across the bed so they were close to the Doctor and the girls. The candles were almost burned down now and the orange glow of the room was soothing. The Doctor reached over Lottie and helped pull the blankets up to Clara's shoulders. They were two children apart and he could hardly make out her features in the ever-dimming light, but when they locked eyes for a moment, he felt more okay than he'd felt all day. He smiled at her and she smiled back, her eyes communicating a similar feeling. She reached over Bristol and settled her hand on his forearm, a poor excuse for falling asleep in each other's arms (something that hadn't happened in far too long thanks to his busy work schedule and the new baby), but somehow enough. Had he a hand free, he would have stroked her hair back from her face. He fell asleep warm and weighed down with love, confident and safe because everyone he loved and cherished was close enough to touch, and there had never before been any greater cause for bliss.

* * *

It happened like most of his big decisions did. Suddenly and rashly.

He'd woken up sweltering, as most of his family had somehow migrated halfway on top of him during the night. Lottie was lying on top of his chest with Ellabell and Bristol was draped halfway across his stomach. Clara was even lying on top of his left arm, her smooth cheek pressed right against the pulse point in his inner elbow. He wasn't so sure she hadn't purposely lied there though, as she had risen every three hours to nurse Miles and hadn't inched over during REM sleep like the others.

It was unusual that he woke up before the children. Especially Ellabell, who rose with the sun like the woman she was named for always had. The Doctor remembered being a child and waking early to the sound of Ellie having tea with Tara, another early riser. He blinked up at the ceiling in confusion for a few moments before he realized suddenly what had woken him. It was a sense of clarity.

He spent the next five minutes carefully edging out from underneath his children, mindful not to wake them. He held his breath and rolled off the mattress slowly, wincing each time it creaked and peeking at his children's sleeping faces. He landed on his stomach on the carpet, momentarily knocking the breath from him, and he stayed there for a few moments, waiting to hear his children begin calling for him. But he heard nothing but deep, peaceful breathing and he considered that a victory. He rose slowly to his feet and padded over to Miles' crib. The baby was awake, staring with quiet interest at the side of his crib. The leaned over and took the baby's hand, pressing his lips to his small fingers and smiling.

"Good morning, Miles!" He whispered tenderly. He scooped a hand underneath his head and another underneath his bottom, lifting him carefully. It amazed him how light the infant was. He cradled him and glanced at the alarm clock. The power had turned on sometime during the night. The clock had batteries to back up the time in cases of power outages, so it blinked the hour at him reliably. He was supposed to leave for work five minutes ago. He appraised the clock for a moment and then reached over and turned it off.

"Bye bye clock." He whispered gleefully to Miles.

He grabbed the baby sling off the kitchen table and put it on, placing Miles carefully in it. He dozed on and off as the Doctor made breakfast, singing along to a station his father used to listen to when he was a boy. He heard Clara's phone beep twice, enough to wake her up but keep from disturbing the rest of the house, and he heard her sharp intake of breath when she saw Miles' empty crib.

The Doctor hurriedly turned down the music.

"In here!" He called. "Got Miles!"

He was trying to figure out how to fry the sausages without accidentally sending grease on Miles when he heard Clara's soft footsteps in the hallway. He turned to her and smiled, taking in her messy hair and bare feet. He hadn't noticed last night, but she was wearing his soft shirt, the one she nicked so much he sometimes forgot it was even his to begin with. He supposed he wasn't even surprised after all these years of thieving.

"Wearing a baby carrier _and _making breakfast." She noted sleepily. "Careful, you're making husbands everywhere look bad in comparison. You're just a tad too perfect, really."

He beamed proudly at her. "Why thank you. I combed my hair this morning and everything. Just for you."

She laughed and crossed over to him, her arms wrapped around herself against the early morning chill. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to Miles' head and then rose up onto her tiptoes, kissing the Doctor deeply. He ran his fingers through her hair and smiled against her lips.

"What are you doing here?" She asked him softly, once she lowered back down onto her feet. "Not that I'm not overjoyed enough to start weeping—because I kind of am and the only reason I'm not crying is because if I start I might not stop—but you're supposed to be at work."

He nodded, his smile still on his face. "I know. Not going."

She stared at him, struggling to comprehend. "You're…not going?"

He nodded again. "Not going! Ever again."

She blinked and then reached up, rubbing her temples tiredly. "Either I'm hearing things or you just said you're quitting your job."

It thrilled him to hear it said outloud. What had been a wistful dream that night was suddenly a committed reality come daylight.

"I am. I am quitting my job." He affirmed. He spun Miles in a gentle circle, smiling down at his itty bitty features. "I'm quitting brains, I'm quitting telling husbands that their wives died, and I'm quitting twenty-four hour call seven days a week."

Clara stared at him for another moment. "Right." She said. She crossed over to the counter, where the Doctor already had two cups of tea ready for them, and lifted his mug. She carried it over to him and unhooked the carrier with her right hand, pulling Miles from the Doctor, and shoved the mug into his empty hands with her left. She fastened the carrier around herself and nodded towards his tea.

"Drink up. You need it." She urged. She shook her head and looked down as she began situating Miles for his morning feeding. "Dear God do you need it," she murmured underneath her breath.

The Doctor took a long drink of his tea, shutting his eyes with blissful content as he reveled in the warm aroma.

"Tea's great." He told Clara happily. "Being home's great. Our children are great. And you're the greatest of all."

He opened his eyes, startled to find Clara looking at him with a stern expression.

"Doctor." She started. She reached up and set both hands on his shoulders seriously. "We need to sit down. Let's go sit down at the table, yeah?"

He beamed happily. "Sure! Need to sit down for Miles?" He nodded towards their son, although he noticed that the infant didn't seem bothered that his mother was standing while feeding him. Clara smiled gently at the Doctor, but he noticed too late that it seemed almost _too_ gentle. Like she was leading him to the slaughter.

"Sure." She said sweetly. She caressed his face. "That's exactly why."

He followed her over to the chairs, sitting down in the one beside her. She readjusted Miles and made sure the carrier was holding him in a good position, and then she promptly reached up and smacked the Doctor's shoulder. Sure, it wasn't really anything but a swat, but he overreacted anyway.

"OW!" He yelled, cringing away from her angrily. "That's spousal abuse! That's abuse!"

She pointed a finger at him. "Do you want to see abuse? Because I've gotten twenty-two hours of sleep in the last week cumulative and I've currently got about the same control over my emotional impulses as our three-year-old!"

He slowly scooted his chair back away from her, his eyes wide. She could be scary sometimes.

"What did I do?" He lamented.

She inhaled deeply and then slowly exhaled, her eyes meeting the Doctor's once more. "Quit your job? Did I really just hear you say you were going to _quit your job_? When I literally just gave birth to our fourth child a week ago and I'm on maternity leave? Please tell me I didn't hear that, Doctor. Please tell me I'm having auditory hallucinations."

He frowned. "You maybe aren't having auditory hallucinations." When she only stared at him blankly, he offered more. "I'm going to be a stay at home dad! Isn't that great?!"

She set her elbow on the table and rested her face into her open hand.

"I don't know what to say." She said, her voice muffled into her palm. "I honestly don't even know where to start."

He smiled hesitantly. "Maybe with…'yay!'?"

She took another measured breath and then lifted her face. She reached over and took the Doctor's face in her hands softly, peering at him intently.

"I'm so sorry about what happened last night," she began. "I know how scary it must have been and I know how depressing your job can get sometimes. And if it's making you miserable, I stand by you on whatever you want to do. But not right now, okay? Not this week. If you're going to quit your job and stay at home, that's a huge thing. We'll have to talk about it and plan for it. That'll cut our income by more than half. And honestly, I don't think your gift-purchasing habits can take that kind of a cut."

He heard every word she said, but he couldn't find it as pressing as she did. He took her hands in his and pulled them from his face, keeping their hands clasped together in his lap.

"Clara, we once spent two weeks in the States living off one twenty dollar bill." He reminded her.

She looked down at herself in mock surprise. "Oh, wow! Look at this child attached to me! We have kids now, Doctor. Did you know that?"

He glared. "Your sarcasm is exhausting."

"Your romanticism is exhausting." She shot back.

He glowered until he couldn't anymore. And then he leaned forward until his face was pressed into her knees.

"I can't do it anymore." He mumbled pathetically. "I can't."

His voice broke on his last two words. He inhaled the clean scent of her pajamas as he tried not to cry. It all came rushing from him.

"I hate it. I'm there more than I'm here. I mean, I counted up the hours I spend at that hospital, and it usually doubles the time I'm here with you. And our children are growing and I'm missing it. And you're doing it all alone, and that wasn't what I wanted. I thought—I thought that if I was a neurosurgeon, it'd be some sort of romantic poetic justice, because my parents shot themselves in the head. But I hate it. There's no beautiful juxtaposition to it. I hate how often people die or probably wish they would have. I hate tumors, I hate having to refer people to oncologists, I hate having to tell parents that their children suffered irreversible head trauma. I hate telling elderly spouses that their loved one had a blood clot. I hate being there with all that death when all I want is to be here with all this life. It's killing me."

He felt her hand settle gently on his head. He cried into her thighs, the weight of the past year overwhelming him suddenly. When he admitted to his own weaknesses, it suddenly made it hurt all the worse.

"Why haven't you told me this before?" She asked him quietly.

Why hadn't he? He'd told her he was stressed out and missing them plenty, but he'd never told her just how much he hated his job. Maybe because she'd spent so long by his side, supporting him throughout the process, that he felt as if he'd let her down just as much as himself if he suddenly backed out now. He lifted his wet face and met her eyes, pained to find hers full of guilt.

"I didn't want to disappoint you." He admitted thickly. "Because you've never disappointed me."

She frowned so deeply her forehead creased. "The only thing you could ever do to disappoint me would be to abandon me or our family. Telling me that you're having doubts about your career wouldn't disappoint me. We would talk about it and figure out what to do. Together."

He blinked back tears.

"Okay." He said. He peered at her pleadingly. "So let's talk about it now."

She shrugged slightly and took a moment to move Miles to her other side, her lips still pulled down into a frown. "There's not much to talk about. You're hurting. I want that to stop. So whatever you need, be it a job switch or a break from work to be with the kids, I'll support you. Like you've always supported me."

He nodded, not at all surprised to hear those words from her mouth despite her initial discontent. Clara always accused him of being the romantic one, but when faced with anyone in her family hurting, Clara was always ready to move mountains. He wouldn't leave her to do it alone, though. "We have enough saved up to last a while. I was thinking that I'd spend time here. With you, while you're on maternity leave. With the kids, you know? All of us together. It would be so great. It's what I need. And then I want to open my own practice."

Her eyes sparkled at that. She smiled knowingly at him. "Pediatrics?"

He smiled back, even if it was slightly watery. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

She laughed. "I've always said to myself that I thought that was what you were really meant to do."

"You always did know me better than I know myself."

She appraised him for a moment, her smile dwindling to a serious look once more.

"Theoretically it'll all be fine, but you've got to seriously look into how to start your own practice and all that while we're here. And we're going to have to instill some sort of monthly limit for Christmas gifts funds." She insisted.

He sighed heavily. "Okay. No frivolous Christmas buying."

She looked at him knowingly. "And no running out to buy the kids ridiculously expensive gifts when they fall and get hurt or get teased at school."

He fidgeted a bit at that. After a long moment, he nodded.

"All right." He agreed.

Clara offered him a smile after that. She slid her chair closer and settled her hands on his knees.

"If we have to go back to eating peanuts I'll kill you, but as irresponsible as it may me, I'm so happy that you're going to be here more. I've really, really missed you. So much." She admitted.

He hugged her gently, mindful of the now-snoozing baby between them. He kissed her neck and closed his eyes, letting his relief seep into him for a moment.

"I can't even tell you how much I've missed you too." He said truthfully.

Breakfast was cold by the time the children came in, and the paths of their lives had shifted just slightly, but the Doctor had never looked forward to the future more. After all, every good decision he'd ever made had been spur of the moment, starting with the afternoon he decided to eat an entire soufflé in one sitting just to see a brunette little girl once more.


	12. Maternity

**A/n: **We're actually linear this time around! I don't know why my muse insisted on this one (it wasn't in the story outline whatsoever), but I couldn't get more than 2000 words into any of the other in-progress chapters due to this one sliding around in my brain. Next chapter we'll be jumping back at least ten years if not more. Thank you all for the reviews! I'm about halfway through with replying- that's my task for tomorrow :)

* * *

_a new life, a disappointed parent, and returned faith_

* * *

Despite her false reputation for being the responsible one, Clara was more excited than the Doctor about his sudden departure from neurosurgery.

The differences in the week she spent without him with the new baby and the week she spent with him were astounding. She had never had the luxury of having him around twenty four/seven after the births of her other children, but she wished she had, because the first few months would have been worlds different than they had been.

The Doctor instantly and easily overtook the jobs of bathing Miles and changing him. Clara knew from her other children that he needed alone time with the baby too, as it was easy for him to feel a little left out when she had the baby for most of the time he was awake. And the Doctor finally had the ability to spend as much time with the baby as he wanted.

It took two months for their family to get into a new routine, as it was pretty impossible to set up routines for the first few weeks, but finally things were quieting down. Clara stopped feeling like she was an all-night café and Bristol stopped resenting his brother as venomously as he had before. Lottie and Ellabell got used to having their dad around and stopped shrieking loudly in joy every time they saw him (waking Miles in the process). And best of all, Clara now had a golden hour completely to herself after the other three were in bed. The Doctor used that block of time to bathe and sing to Miles, leaving Clara the odd freedom of sitting and watching television or talking on the phone or taking a bath without the baby. It was liberating to say the least.

"I feel like a human again," she greeted Charlotte. She was opting to use her hour tonight to talk on the phone _in_ the bathtub. She felt like she'd recently been released from prison in the way that this slight privacy and solitude was almost overwhelming, like she was stepping out into the real world for the first time in years.

"So soon?" Charlotte asked. Clara could hear the sound of her most recent boyfriend playing a video game in the background. "It took you until month four to feel like a human again after Bristol!"

"Super Dad is home, remember?" Clara reminded her. She slid down further into the bath and sighed happily.

"Ooh la la, _Super Dad_," Charlotte teased. The sounds of David's video games faded as Charlotte presumably left the room. "Is Super Dad also nursing him now?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "No way. Men can't actually breastfeed. I checked, trust me."

"No, remember, there was that bloke a few years back who did!" Charlotte argued. "He was on Oprah or something."

Clara laughed. Only Charlotte—who was about the furthest thing from a mother there was—would have remembered that. The only way she'd have children would be if they found a way for the men to also carry them for nine months.

"Well, Super Dad is doing all the changing. Literally all of it. He got cross with me for changing him during a nighttime feeding last week. He actually wants me to wake him up to do it." She shared. She knew she was nearing the bragging line, but she was so in love with her husband at the current moment in time that she'd brag about him to anyone who would listen. And Charlotte would always listen. That was one of the great things about their friendship.

She didn't have to see Charlotte to know she was rolling her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, he's the last good man there is and you've nabbed him. What else is new. No, literally, what else is new? I'm so bored. David won't stop playing this game."

Clara sat up in the bath and turned the faucet back on, adding more hot water to the tub. She had to practically yell over the roar of the water to be heard.

"Um...Lottie said she missed you yesterday. During some violent film about zombies I caught her watching behind our back, so I'm not sure what you've been talking to her about that makes her now associate you with the flesh-eating undead, but you were definitely on her mind as she watched some zombie rip this man's throat out." She shared.

Charlotte laughed loudly, quickly halting her laughter like she was laughing about something she shouldn't have been. "I might have been telling her David's escape plan for the possible zombie apocalypse. Which turned into a discussion all about zombies. She was so interested!"

Clara tsked. "That's what I get for leaving a video game and software developer alone with my six year old."

"She's got an artistic and mathematical soul, what can I say?" Charlotte said proudly. Clara could hear the smile in her voice. "What else? Lay it on me."

Clara struggled to think of something of interest. To be honest, most of her life was Miles, Miles, Miles.

"Miles is smiling just to smile now!" She shared. "It's so beautiful. Actually beautiful, not just my biased, hormonal opinion. And Bristol wanted him to sleep in his bed with him last night-not that he could, but it was a big improvement from wanting to hit him at least. Uh, Ellabell's constipated because she ate two entire blocks of cheese while no one was looking. And I did two loads of laundry yesterday. And also I'm no longer celibate."

Charlotte let out a cry of relief. "Oh thank the heavens! I can talk about my sex life again without feeling guilty!"

Clara laughed. "Don't get too adventurous in your retellings—we're still interrupted at least fifty-percent of the time by some small human or another. But there is, in fact, life after newborns. Somehow I'm still surprised each time by that fact."

Charlotte's voice was matter-of-fact. "Because you spend the first month as a milk slave to a tiny, screaming, bald thing."

Clara inclined her head in agreement, even though Charlotte couldn't see her. "A little more frank that I would have put it, but yes, essentially. And true it's stressful and exhausting, but I've said it before and I'll say it again, it's completely worth it. You just don't know how much you can love those little screaming bald things. I look forward to waking up in the night to feed him just because I get to bond with him."

Charlotte gagged theatrically. "Sure, sure, you say that, Mummy. But I spent all weekend in bed with David. And let me tell you, no one interrupted us." It was now her turn to brag. Clara figured it was her right to do so.

"He didn't ask you to wear—" Clara started hesitantly.

"No!" Charlotte insisted loudly, before Clara even finished. Clara bit her tongue to keep from laughing. "Dear God, no. Never again. God, don't bring it up, please. Between your gushy oxytocin-high and that I might vomit."

Clara struggled to maintain her laughter. "Sorry, sorry. Just wondering."

"Ugh." Charlotte groaned again. "No, actually, he ordered pizza for every meal and said all the right things. But seriously, I'm sick of talking about men and babies. I want to talk technology."

Clara sighed contently. The water was just the right temperature and the company had just the right conversational tastes. "I love you, Charlotte. Anything you want to talk about. I miss my computer so much I'm dreaming in C syntax. I called Miles AIBO as a petname and now Bristol's calling him "eye bow", like a bow that goes on your eye I guess? He's very into it. And yesterday I made a joke about the 11th dimension and then spent thirty minutes trying to explain the superstring theory to Lottie and Ellabell, who looked at me like I was speaking Korean."

Charlotte found that a lot more humorous than Clara had thought she would. "Sunny shits, Clara. This is what happens when you decide to wean yourself off technology. You go stir-crazy. Okay, so I was making a general argument in favor of FORTRAN and I almost got stabbed. Literally."

Clara blinked. "Um, Charlotte? I think the new rule is that you have to start the conversation with the fact that someone almost stabbed you."

"Eh. It was just a letter-opener. Things are going great back at the office without you, don't you worry."

Clara was about to demand a detailed retelling of the argument when the bathroom door suddenly burst open, revealing a shocked and shirtless Doctor. Clara felt her heart squeeze with alarm, her eyes automatically searching for Miles. When she didn't see him, she felt her stomach turn with worry.

"Hang on a moment, Charlie." She said. She set her phone on the edge of the tub and the Doctor opened his mouth wordlessly a few times, much to Clara's frustration.

"Is Miles all right?" She asked immediately. She began to stand from the bath, automatically thinking the worst, but the Doctor quickly shook his head. His look of shock morphed into one of cautious joy.

"Clara…he's asleep." He breathed.

Clara blinked at him. "No way. I didn't hear him cry. He hasn't had his marathon nighttime feeding."

The Doctor grasped his cheeks and shook his head in disbelief. "I know! I know! He smiled throughout his entire bath and then we relaxed in the chair for a bit and he just—fell asleep! Right on my chest! His little heartbeat matched the rhythm of mine and our breathing synchronized and then he yawned and…and…goodnight Miles!"

Clara felt all worry fade from her heart, replaced quickly by warm love. The startled joy on the Doctor's face was one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen. He didn't get to experience the same level of closeness that she did with Miles, seeing as though he hadn't been the one to carry him or nurse him, so this was one of his first experiences with lulling the baby to sleep in such a natural and easy way. Clara always felt overwhelming bliss and content when the baby's breathing and heart rate matched up with hers—normally right after nursing and before a nap—as it reminded her that she and her baby were still one unit in a way, and she was overjoyed that the Doctor had at least partially experienced that feeling as well.

Clara lifted the phone back to her ear, her throat suddenly narrowed by the swelling of her heart.

"I've got to go; Super Dad just got the baby to sleep three hours earlier than normal." She shared excitedly.

Charlotte was her most understanding friend when it came to abrupt phone call endings. And, coincidentally, her best one. "Super Dad strikes again! You should make a comic for the man. Tell him I said hello and have fun!"

Clara beamed happily. "We will! Love you!"

"And I you, crazy baby lady!"

Clara let her phone fall carelessly to the floor. She hugged her arms to herself in glee, her mind jumping between all the things she could do with her sudden freedom. She looked back to the Doctor, who was still smiling with that dreamy, paternal look on his face.

"He wasn't sucking on his hands or anything, right? He didn't seem fussy or hungry?" She demanded.

The Doctor shook his head. "No! He was so…comforted. So at ease. I think he loves me!"

Clara laughed and eyed the Doctor strangely. "Of course he loves you. You're his father."

"Yeah, only I've got to try hard to get noticed, because I don't feed him." He clarified. He beamed proudly. "He likes my heartbeat and my singing. I'm a good dad."

Clara smiled at him, letting her full affection for the man in front of her leak through. "You're the best dad."

He sighed happily and then widened his eyes once more, like something had just occurred to him. "Clara! We might have two whole hours to ourselves!"

Clara found it difficult to wrap her head around that idea. She was cautious of over-optimism, so she decided they'd better make the most of their time before it was gone. Miles could wake up at any moment.

"Quick! Get in!" She hissed. She didn't have to tell him twice. She laughed as he tripped trying to get out of his shorts, almost face planting on the bathroom tile. She grabbed his hand once he was free of his clothing and tugged him towards the bathtub, sliding over and making room for him beside her. He fell down into the water, making the water level rise all the way up to Clara's neck, and pulled her close to him. Clara slid down and molded her body to his and they both let out a unanimous contented sigh.

"Alone at last." Clara mumbled into his wet skin.

The Doctor kissed her damp forehead and smiled. "I'm so happy. We can say curse words. And talk about taxes."

Clara slid a leg between his and held him closer, grinning mischievously into his shoulder. "We could even have sex."

The Doctor met her eyes, his twinkling with excited suggestion. "We could. We really could. Wow."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, their lips quivering with laughter and their eyes lit with excitement, and then they reached for each other at the same moment, sending water splashing over the edge of the bathtub. Clara kissed the Doctor deeply, her hands finding his slick shoulders, and he tugged her submerged body over on top of his. After a few moments of kissing and squirming in the small space, Clara realized something. She pulled her lips back from his and set her hands on his chest, lifting up slightly to look down at him.

"Doctor. We could have sex in our bed!" She realized.

He covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head with wonder. "No. It's too good to be true."

Clara didn't waste any time climbing out of the bathtub. Her body shook from the cold and she grabbed her towel off the rack, crossing quickly to the linen cupboard to grab one for the Doctor. He was already out when she returned, dancing in place from the cold. She tossed it at him.

"Let's hurry and let's put a chair underneath the doorknob!" She suggested conspiratorially. She felt like they were sneaking into some high-security government building with the quiet way they tiptoed into their room and locked the door, securing it with a propped chair. They kept their hands over their mouths as they carefully searched underneath their bed, making sure Bristol wasn't hiding to jump out and scare them, and then they eased back onto the bed, crawling back into each other's arms. Where they'd been frantic before they were calm now, taking care to kiss quietly and breathe quietly and deliver their barely-audible moans into pillows. Clara took time to appreciate the way the mattress molded to her form and the coolness of the sheets underneath her damp body, and the Doctor's precise caresses and adoring words, and the sight of him underneath her with his wet hair spread out in every direction. She'd thanked him for his help with words hundreds of times, but she thanked him with her body this time, and the sight of his pleasure was a gift. They extended their love-making for as long as it could go, understanding that this moment was an unrushed luxury that they might not have in a long while, and when they finally rose and fell together it seemed a delicious success.

Clara was overheated and overjoyed. She sank back into his embrace like she'd been away from it for years, finding the idea of drifting off to sleep in his arms just as appealing as having sex with him. It had been a long time since they'd been able to hold each other and fall asleep. It was something Clara missed deeply.

"Clara," the Doctor began, like he had some important news to share with her. He stroked her hair and tugged her body closer to his, intertwining their bare legs. "I love you so much."

Clara smiled into his skin. "Only after sex?"

Her teasing was pointless. There were only a few instances in her life where she'd ever doubted his love for her, and none of them had occurred in the past seven years.

"Before it and during it and after it and even if we never had it ever again." He told her, his voice full with emotion.

Clara hummed thoughtfully. "I have loved you in every life I've ever lived." She decided. "Even in a past life as a snail."

The Doctor chuckled tiredly and pressed his face into her hair. He'd once told her that the smell of her made him feel more at home than anything else in the world. She understood that feeling. "Your recent shift from firm agnosticism to an unwavering belief in reincarnation is beginning to seem a bit worrisome. But I'm sure in that theoretical life I loved you right back, even if I was the leaf you were eating."

Clara grinned. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

He laughed again. "What can I say? I'm a romantic man."

Clara stretched slightly and reveled in just how relaxed she felt. She knew even an hour of sleep in the Doctor's arms would do her impossible good.

"I'm so glad you quit." She admitted to him, her voice slurring just a bit in exhaustion. "I'm so happy each time I wake up and remember you're here to stay."

The Doctor kissed her bare shoulder tenderly, his arms holding her even closer. "All of our irresponsible decisions are so lovely."

Clara hummed in agreement. "Except the responsible decision to take a nap right now. That's the loveliest of all. Sing to me, Chin Boy."

He poked her ribs teasingly. "I thought I told you not to call me that?"

She laughed and groped around for the blankets blindly, letting out a sigh of relief when she finally grasped the fabric. She pulled it up to her shoulders and closed her eyes, focusing on the scent of his skin and the way his arms felt like home.

"Our wedding song?" He asked her quietly a moment later.

She smiled briefly. "Yeah. Always that."

She only heard one stanza before she was in a deep sleep.

* * *

She woke up an uncertain amount of time later, pulled from her sleep by the shift of the bed.

She blinked awake, automatically straining her ears for the sound of her son's crying. She didn't hear much but the Doctor's quiet footsteps. She opened her eyes in the dim light, not at all surprised to find him redressed and pacing the carpet, Miles clutched close to him as he bounced him and tried to keep him from crying. She sat up slowly and slid back against the headboard, the blanket puddling at her waist.

"I'm up," she said drowsily. The Doctor gave a start at her voice and turned, smiling at her.

"Good…morning. Morning? Night? I don't even know." He said. "But I think Miles is hungry."

Clara nodded tiredly. "I know. My breasts can tell."

The Doctor sat on the edge of the bed and passed her the fussy baby, who had just been changed judging by the faint smell of baby powder on his bare skin.

"They are very astute." He complimented.

Clara kissed Miles' forehead and shifted him, cradling his head in one hand and his body with both arms. She ran her foot down the Doctor's leg in a lazy caress, her eyes on Miles as he latched onto her with an adorable determination, his tiny brow furrowed in concentration.

"Thanks." She said, in response to the Doctor's compliment. "What time is it?"

She turned to glance at the clock, but Miles pulled away from her and gave a small whimper when she looked away from him. He grabbed at her upper arm until she looked back down at him. She met his light eyes once more and gently stroked his downy hair as he nursed, his tiny hand over her heart and his eyes intent on hers, like he was making sure she was there to stay. He smiled lazily for a moment when she grinned down at him, and it was enough to flood Clara's heart with joy. At his age his eyesight hadn't developed for him to see very far past her face, so she was pretty literally the entirety of his world for these first few months. It was both overwhelming and beautiful to be needed so much.

"One. So Miles' favorite hour." The Doctor replied. To say their son was a night-owl would be an understatement. The Doctor sat beside them and Clara watched as Miles' eyes moved to his father. He took a moment to give the Doctor a smile as well, something that deeply flattered his father.

"He's smiling at me!" He said happily, as if Clara hadn't noticed. She grinned.

"That's because he loves you." She replied. "And he's probably also glad that Bristol isn't here pestering him."

The Doctor kissed Miles' foot, his eyes full of knowing.

"I had a brother three years older than me too, Miles. I completely understand." He cooed comfortingly to the baby.

Clara rolled her eyes, but she hoped that Miles and Bristol could eventually be at least as close as Ten and the Doctor were. She had been hoping they'd be closer, seeing as though they wouldn't have any tragedies to tear them apart, but time would only tell. It wouldn't be possible until Bristol got over the urge to push the baby from Clara's lap and onto the floor when he felt he wasn't given enough room on her lap. That might tend to damage siblinghood.

The Doctor took to humming to Miles, and Clara recognized it as the song Miles always responded to best, even though it made no sense to her at all. It was a song originally sung by a female, all about how love and heartbreak made her capital-C Crazy, and yet Miles snuggled closer to his mother like the Doctor was singing Rock-A-Bye Baby. She glanced up at her husband.

"Next time we're trying actual lullabies." She decided. She caught her mistake a second later with the widening of the Doctor's eyes. She backtracked quickly. "Wait! No!_ No! _There will be no next time! This is the last one!"

The Doctor nodded firmly in agreement, looking at her almost suspiciously. "Sometimes I remember that huge week-long fight we got into after I suggested having children for the first time and I want to go back in time and hug my distraught self."

Clara sighed and glanced back down at Miles, picking up his tiny hand to press a kiss to his fingers. They were getting chubbier by the day. "You've created a monster." She said. "Not the baby, me. I'm the monster."

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but he wrapped his arm around her shoulders too. He resumed humming and Clara felt that he was doing a better job at putting her to sleep than their baby.

"You still haven't told me that I was right." The Doctor said suddenly. Clara didn't have to look away from Miles to know that he was peering at her with a smug expression. "If I remember correctly, you said –and I quote—"I am never having babies because I will just ruin their lives!"—very dramatic of you, by the way. And then I told you that you would be a wonderful mum and that I'd be a wonderful dad and you accused us of blowing our brains out on some undetermined future Christmas, which was very Tara-like of you, and then you left to stay at Charlotte's for a week, but I was totally right. And I now take this moment to say I told you so."

Clara peered uneasily up at the Doctor, her face shadowed with prolonged shame. "I'm so sorry for saying that to you."

He leaned closer and kissed the side of her face, his lips curved up into a smile. "Who was right?" He pressed.

Clara sighed. "You were right. I was wrong. We aren't rubbish at this. And we haven't yet ruined anyone's tiny lives."

He nodded happily. "Thank you. I now feel adequately prepared to finally get over our fight."

"You're such a child," she accused gently, but she was smiling despite herself, because he had been right. And that was never an argument she really wanted to win anyway.

Clara hovered in between sleep and alertness with her head against the Doctor's shoulder, smiling periodically down at her baby when he'd doze off himself, only to wake up almost startled like he couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep during mealtime.

"I really like having you awake with me," Clara admitted tiredly, not really thinking about her words.

She could hear his smile. "Yeah?"

She turned her head blindly and sought out his lips, beaming sleepily when he pressed his to hers. "Yeah." She affirmed.

His arm was warm as he gave her shoulders a squeeze. "Then we'll just make this our talking time."

Sometimes she still remembered the way it was before, when they had actual conversations maybe once a week if they were lucky, and the thought was enough to make her heart ache.

"You know what I would do if I could go back in time?" She asked him abruptly.

His voice was humored and oddly awake considering how late it was. "What?"

"First I would record all the wonderful things you do during the day and then I would go back in time and show the video to my mum, so she could see what an amazing man you are. She always believed in you, maybe more than anyone else, so it wouldn't be a surprise to her, but maybe she would have died less afraid. Knowing that I'd have you."

For a few moments, all he did was rest his face against the top of her head, his smile pronounced. Miles finished and Clara passed him to the Doctor for burping, who took the infant eagerly and proclaimed his "awesome" burping skills. Clara watched him with a smile and accepted the drowsy infant once he was taken care of, resting him on her chest where he usually snoozed. He yawned and sighed happily, his tiny nose scrunching up with the effort, and then curled up over her heart.

"I think I would do something similar." The Doctor finally said, his voice thoughtful. "But to prove Tara wrong."

Well, she wouldn't deny that being able to prove Tara wrong was one of her favorite things about being a responsible adult. She always was a grudge-holder. Clara let Miles sleep on her chest until she just couldn't stay awake any longer, and then the Doctor changed him once more and put his pajamas back on him. He moved him to the bedside crib while she took a quick shower. She bundled up in her warmest pajamas afterwards, feeling cold in the night air, and when she walked back into the bedroom she was elated to find the Doctor already waiting on fresh sheets, his arms opened for her. She sank down into his embrace and couldn't believe her luck. She got to fall asleep in his arms twice. She decided that this was one of the best nights she'd ever lived, and it was so simply good that Clara was certain that they'd found the secret to happiness. And it looked nothing like she had expected it to seven years ago.

* * *

Of course, thinking smugly about Tara had obviously somehow cursed them.

Clara woke up at eight, drawn from her second deep sleep of the night by the sound of animated sword fighting coming from Bristol's bedroom. She assessed her in-room boys first—smiling down at the Doctor's still-sleeping face and then sliding over to check on Miles in the bedside crib—and then she went about her morning routine quietly, hoping she could at least wash her face and brush her teeth before the baby started crying again. She succeeded doing both and sat down on the edge of the bed, sipping a glass of water peacefully as she watched Miles tiny fists open and close in his dream. She was about to go start breakfast-and maybe head to Bristol's room and take a sword and teach him a thing or two about swordfighting-when a sudden voice startled her. It was foreign in their home and coming from what sounded like the family room.

She choked on a sip of water and coughed blindly for a few moments. She felt the Doctor's hand settle between her shoulder blades and she couldn't focus on his concerned voice at all, because her mind was swimming in panic. She turned around and stared at him in horror.

"We do _not_ let Tara visit until the babies are at least four months old! Remember?! That's a rule! That's—I'm really serious about that!" She hissed in panic.

He blinked in confusion, rubbing his face tiredly. "I didn't invite Tara."

He fell quiet a moment later, when they heard Tara very distinctly ask where the Doctor was. Then they heard the terrifying first footsteps toward their bedroom. Clara looked at the Doctor in horror.

"_What is she doing here_?" She groaned in torment. The Doctor tugged desperately as his hair, his eyes widened with panic.

"Oh no." He breathed. He scratched nervously at his face. "She knows."

They exchanged fearful looks as the footsteps drew nearer. Clara dove off the edge of the bed and attempted to make a run for the lock, but she stopped dead in her tracks when she heard Tara stop outside of their door. She retreated rapidly, her legs hitting the back of the bed, and fell back down onto the mattress. She looked at the Doctor and tried to prepare herself for whatever stress Tara was about to cause.

They were sitting back against the headboard innocently, the blankets still covering their legs like they'd just woken, when Tara walked confidently into their bedroom. She shut the door firmly behind her (a bad sign) and smiled at Clara (a worse sign).

"Good morning, Clara." She greeted. She didn't even look at her adopted son. Clara heard his breath catch with fear.

"Morning, Tara." She replied, glad that her voice was steady and calm. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Tara rounded the bed, drawing nearer to Miles' crib. She leaned over and peered intently at him, her eyebrows furrowed. Clara waited for a slew of comments about everything from the baby's weight to the sheets she had on his mattress, but oddly, nothing came. She straightened and met Clara's eyes.

"Well, I haven't seen Miles since he was born. Felt it was time to come here so I didn't end up waiting another four months like I had to with Bristol."

Clara resisted the urge to throw the pillow violently at her face. She took a steady breath and smiled tersely.

"Well, we have the four month rule for a reason." She said slowly. "I like to establish a reliable routine for the others and having Nana show up at eight in the morning isn't exactly…normal."

She peered indifferently at Clara. "Yes, well, sleeping in the same room as your baby isn't exactly normal either, Clara."

That was all it took. Clara snapped. "It is called co-sleeping and this arrangement lowers the risk of SIDS by as much as fifty percent."

The Doctor spoke up in defense of their parenting. "Also, the baby still has at least two night feedings, so this is much more convenient."

Tara didn't even acknowledge that the Doctor was there. Clara resisted the urge to add _and you've never had an infant in your home so it's not like you're an expert, _but decided to save their fighting for the end of her visit.

"You know what might be just a little more unusual than Nana showing up?" Tara began. She tapped the edge of Miles' crib as if she was thinking deeply. "Daddy staying home all day."

Clara and the Doctor exchanged a look that communicated very clearly: _Here we go. _

"Actually, they've long adjusted to that and they're happier than they've ever been." Clara said stiffly. She looked to her husband. "Isn't that right, Doctor?"

He nodded feebly. "Yeah," he said softly. He cleared his throat. "Yeah." He repeated, more boldly this time.

Tara took a menacing step towards the bed.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, young man, but I'm not going to let it happen. I can see your future as well as I can see your past, and the current state of it is shameful."

Well, at least she was making eye contact with her son now. Clara felt anger stir inside of her and she was about to tear into Tara, but the Doctor set a brief hand on her thigh, stilling her words.

"I made a decision for myself for once, and actually, I'm happier than I've been in years." He said calmly.

Tara bristled. "I don't know what she said to you to convince you that you'd rather be here all day than at work, but she's not your ally right now, Doctor. I am. I'm your longest ally and your longest friend and I'm the one who is going to be there for you when this bottoms out."

The Doctor lifted his hand from her thigh. Clara took that as adequate permission to give life to the angry words brewing inside of her, not that she would have silenced them had he not agreed to it.

"I didn't say a sodding _thing_ to him." She bit out. "He told me he was quitting, he said he was miserable, and I said I'd support him in whatever he needed to be happy again. That was it. And I hate to break it to you, but _this—_" she gestured between her and the Doctor—"isn't bottoming out. Ever."

Miles was definitely her child, because the sound of Tara's voice began to disturb him. He let out a sudden wail, his face covered in a frown, and lifted his arms to his eyes as if he was trying to block out light. He normally did that when he was beginning to get hungry, and Clara took that as a natural sign that it was time for Tara to leave.

She nodded towards the baby. "Well, as much as I'll miss getting incorrectly judged by you, Miles is hungry. Which means you can go."

Tara didn't even move an inch. "I'm not leaving until my son calls the hospital and begs them for his job back."

Clara shrugged. "Then you'd better get used to my naked torso because the shirt's coming off and he isn't going to call them."

Tara looked sternly at the Doctor. "Doctor. Call them."

When Clara glanced at him, he was still somehow calm. She didn't understand how he could be so tranquil. She guessed he was used to Tara's judgments. Tara always thought she knew better than he did, even now.

"I'm not calling them." He told her firmly. "I was miserable, Tara. I won't do that to myself again."

Miles whimpered, still half asleep, and Clara slid over to the side of the bed. She lowered the left side of his crib and pulled him out, cradling him close and pressing kisses to his head and tiny shoulders.

"It's okay," she cooed. He yawned, shifting closer to her warmth, and grabbed a fistful of her shirt. She rocked him gently and looked back at her mother-in-law, who was staring at the Doctor angrily.

"John." She said, low and dangerous. "Don't do this to yourself. You're so much smarter than this. You have so much potential, so many gifts. Don't throw them away for _this_." She gestured unhappily at their home and then, more insultingly, at Clara and Miles. The baby nuzzled his face against her chest, equal parts irritated and hungry, and Clara shielded his ears as if he'd understand that Tara was implying that he wasn't good enough for his own father.

"You can say whatever you want about me, but don't you dare talk about our children like that." She warned Tara. "They're more than enough to make staying home worth it."

The Doctor's voice was measured when he finally spoke.

"I love you Tara, but I think I want you to go now." He admitted. Those words made Tara's eyes widen with insult.

"I'm not going! I spent so long working with you and helping you to become a neurosurgeon, and now you're just going to give it all up? For what? Your brother's concerned too! No longer being passionate about the things you used to be is one of the first signs of depression in adults!"

He bristled. The animosity in the room was getting to Miles and Clara was torn between her natural instinct to flee the room with her baby and her desire to stay and punch Tara.

"That _job_ made me more depressed than anything." The Doctor told Tara bluntly. "I've never been passionate about it. You know what I am passionate about? Being a good father and a good husband. All else is secondary to me. So if I one day choose a job over my family, _that's_ when you should be concerned."

Miles squirmed again and Clara made a sound of finality. "Well, shirt's coming off. Get over it or get out."

Tara didn't even spare her a sour glance. "Like I care about your nudity. You're too vain for your own good and always have been. Always said the person you esteem most in the world is yourself."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Yeah, giving birth to four children was quite vain of me. Don't you think so, Doctor?"

He grinned briefly at her and looked seriously at Tara. "Her ego's so big I have to sleep in the crib with Miles because there's no room in the bed."

They laughed together and Clara forgot that Tara was even there for a moment. The sight of him smiling dispersed all discomfort for a brief time.

When she looked back up at Tara's irritated expression, she felt herself rising from the bed, Miles still clutched safely in her arms. She didn't think it was right that Tara thought she could just burst into their bedroom and make the environment feel so cold. This was their house.

"You can call the Doctor and talk to him more about this if you want, but I expect you to be gone in the next five minutes." She told her. She was bothered to find her voice was less annoyed and more tired. "I really don't have the energy to fight with you like I used to. You hate me and you always will and there's nothing to be done about that, but I've got a two month old baby who needs me, and I'm not going to let you make my own bedroom feel unsafe."

She was surprised to see that her hands were shaking when she pulled their door open. She hadn't thought Tara's criticisms could ever really bother her, but maybe she was more sensitive than usual from her strange sleeping patterns, because she actually felt like her feelings had been hurt. She traveled to Lottie's bedroom—the furthest from her own—and opened the door quietly to find Lottie fiddling with some old laptop they didn't use anymore, some score to a zombie movie playing in the background.

"Mummy!" She said happily. "Look what I did! It turns on now!"

Clara sat beside her on the floor and hugged her to her side, peering intently at the screen. The laptop kept recircling to system restore due to a nasty virus, but Lottie's patient fiddling had finally gotten the computer to boot in safe mode. She smoothed her daughter's hair and kissed her cheek.

"You're my clever girl." She told her fondly. "Is Ellabell still swordfighting with Bristol? They've gotten suspiciously quiet."

Lottie listened intently for a moment, thinking hard. "They're playing hide and seek. With the swords. Someone is probably going to get hurt."

Clara sighed. "Probably. At least they're foam. There's only so much damage you can do with those."

Lottie turned to her curiously. "How come Nana is here?"

Clara leaned back against the bed and tended to Miles' hunger, feeling safe enough here to do so. Lottie's face was creased with confusion, probably because she had noticed by now that her grandmother didn't come to the house very often after a new baby.

"She's mad at Daddy." Clara told her honestly. "Because he's getting a different job."

Lottie nodded knowingly. "So she was angry and she made Miles sad."

They both looked down at the contented baby who was more than happy now. "Basically." Clara hedged. She realized that Tara had actually made _her _sad and she didn't like that. Or want to admit that to Lottie.

"I like that Daddy is here." Lottie said firmly, as if that solved the entire problem. "Don't you?"

Clara smiled genuinely, her thoughts suddenly straying to the gentle smile the Doctor had given her right before they made love the night prior. "I love him here."

Lottie shrugged. "So Nana is confused probably, because it's good."

Clara laughed weakly. She started to explain that things weren't that simple, but then she stopped, her own eyebrows furrowing. Because it _was _that simple. It really was.

"You're right, Lottie." She agreed. "I'm glad you can still see that, because sometimes I can't."

Lottie didn't quite understand what her mother meant, but she leaned her head against her arm anyway. Clara watched Lottie play around with the broken laptop for a few minutes, her heart heavy for reasons she couldn't place. She wrapped her arm around her daughter's shoulders.

"Are you happy?" Clara asked her curiously.

To a normal child about to turn seven, the question was simple. But Lottie peered up at her mother almost like she understood how heavy that question could really be, and that made Clara's heart freeze with worry for her eldest.

"Yeah! Next week is name week and Ms. Jones said that if we're named after someone they can come eat lunch with us!" She said simply. "And even though I had to play dolls with Ellie this morning, she played hospital with me after. It was nice of her, I think."

Clara let out a brief exhalation of relief, pressing another kiss to her daughter's forehead.

"I'll call Charlie and tell her about it so she can come eat with you." She promised Lottie. Lottie shook her head.

"I already wrote her a letter, but I couldn't find the envelopes." She pointed at a piece of paper on her desk. Clara could make out the large and messy handwriting from where she was sitting. She laughed.

"Of course you did." She said fondly. Her daughter's easy happiness helped lighten her heart.

When she heard Tara's footsteps heading towards the door, she rose quietly to her feet, careful to keep from jostling Miles too much. She attempted to shift all of his weight onto her right arm in order to pull the door open, but Lottie was beside her and opening it before she even asked. Clara beamed at her helpfulness.

"You're a great big sister, Lottie." She complimented. Lottie beamed.

Clara made her way back into her bedroom, worried about what she might find when she arrived. When she walked in to find the Doctor calmly dressing for the day, she wasn't sure whether that was a good or a bad sign. It was sometimes difficult to tell with him.

"Are you all right?" She asked gently.

He looked up and smiled at her, halfway through buttoning his shirt. "Yeah. She's not happy, but she at least understands now."

Clara sat down in the chair in the corner, resting Miles on the pillow for the sake of shaking out one of her sore arms. She was about to motion for him to come over closer to her, but he was already walking over when she looked up. He perched on the edge and just the smell of him helped soothe the leftover worry from Tara's visit. Worry that, despite her previous surety, she wasn't good enough for the Doctor or her children after all. If he knew that Tara had made her feel that, he wouldn't have been so happy with his mother figure. She kept it quiet.

"What'd you say to get her to understand?" Clara wondered curiously. She had never been able to make Tara understand anything, so she was eager to hear his success story.

The Doctor was suddenly sheepish. He busied himself with checking Miles, to make sure he didn't need changing, and then adjusting his tiny socks. They were the candy-cane ones Ellabell had worn home from the hospital. The Doctor liked to dress their babies in them for as long as their feet would fit.

"What?" She wondered curiously, shifting slightly towards him. Miles pulled back until she looked back down at him, growing uneasy with their sudden and long lapse of eye contact. She echoed his responding grin when her eyes were on his light ones once more.

"I told her that you five are the reason I'm alive in the first place." He said, his eyes on his hands like he was embarrassed. "She didn't like that too much, and then I spent a couple minutes defending you, and then...well, I just kind of told her all the things that I love about all of you and how you're all what I live for in the first place and how I feel like the streams of our lives are interwoven and...I think she came to terms with the fact that there's no talking me out of this. Any of this. This path is the only path I ever could have taken. I truly believe that."

Clara didn't know if it was her sleep deprivation or her earlier doubts, but she was feeling weepy. Ever since she was a child herself all she wanted was to see the Doctor happy, and to know that she was the one who brought that happiness to him was irreplaceable. She blinked against the burning behind her eyes and reached for his hand, bringing it to her face. She closed her eyes and focused on the familiar texture of his soft palms, realizing that she could have very easily counted the years of her life in caresses from that same hand. She loved him and it was what had started everything. That love had been a catalyst for so much growth and so much joy, not to mention so many new lives.

"There is nothing else for me but this." She agreed. In every possible life her soul had lived, she had ended up with his soul, and they had made these children, and all was well every single time. It was why she sometimes woke up with a smile on her face. That level of overwhelming love and security couldn't be contained to just happenstance. It was all fate and it was all beautiful. Death had robbed her of faith and life had brought it right back to her again.


	13. For Richer, For Poorer

_Jealousy and lust, statues that move, and the importance of home_

* * *

It wasn't until he was standing in front of the table, a serving tray balanced on both arms, that he realized he'd forgotten a customer's baked potato. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and curse, focusing instead on grinning and passing out the rest of the plates to the large party. He was about to face the elderly woman—who had kindly and politely asked for a baked potato only for her meal—and apologize, when he caught a whiff of Clara's perfume. He turned to his right and watched as she greeted his table, leaning forward past him easily and setting the plate with a baked potato down right in front of the woman.

"Chives and no butter or sour cream, just as you like." Clara told her smoothly. She shot the table one last smile and seemed to glide off, her hand patting the Doctor's ass almost as an afterthought. He was flustered and blushing, trying his hardest to regain his serving attitude as the party watched him curiously. After a moment of staring blankly after her, he turned back to the quiet table.

He gestured back towards Clara with his thumb, clearing his throat. "That's my better half." He explained. He was opening his mouth to wish them a good meal when the elderly woman, extensively pleased with her potato, leaned forward slightly in her chair and asked him a blunt question.

"Is she your sweetheart?" She wanted to know. He got the impression that this was probably a grandmother who asked her grandchildren every Christmas whether or not they were dating anyone yet. Her eyes twinkled with creased romance and idealized pasts.

The Doctor laughed. Truthfully he didn't have time to talk; it was seven on a Friday night and the restaurant was so packed there was an hour wait for even a two-person table, as literally every table had been reserved already. He had double the amount of tables he normally did due to a sick coworker and, to top it off, the kitchen was running behind. Something to do with a grease fire. But he couldn't resist an opportunity to call Clara his wife. They'd been married for two weeks and still the word felt giddily wonderful in his mouth.

"She's my wife." He told them dreamily. He wiggled his left hand at them, grinning widely. "Just married two weeks ago."

The table, which consisted of wealthy women, found that exceedingly charming. He listened to the women coo and smiled politely, edging slightly to his left as he could feel people from table six glaring at his back.

"How wonderful!" Another woman gushed. "Where are you two from, if you don't mind me asking?"

The Doctor scratched anxiously at the back of his neck, trying to figure out a way to politely hurry up the conversation without being too standoffish. He decided to foresee their questions and answer them all before they even asked, even at the risk of providing too much information.

"London area. We've been traveling for a few months here in the States. Now we're working to save up enough to travel back home and pay our car rental bill." He shared.

He could see the women's brief, startled expressions. Like perhaps they'd forgotten in their Upper East Side bubble that there were people who didn't even have enough money to fly across the Atlantic Ocean. The woman in a cream dress suit, with real diamond jewelry, folded her manicured hands on top of the table and peered intently at the Doctor like she'd never heard anything more interesting before.

"I come here for lunch every day and I always see your wife. You two must work a lot of hours."

The Doctor wasn't really sure what to say to that, and he could hear some other people from one of his tables loudly inquiring about their server's location. He attempted to speed up the conversation.

"Yeah, we work as often as possible. We're on our feet all day and we're sleeping in—well, anyway, it's been an adventure!" He nodded, as if to back up his own statement. He visibly winced when he heard someone yell for "JOHN" loudly. The ladies at this table noticed, shooting the man judging looks.

"Really, can't he see you're talking?" The potato lady complained. Her friends mumbled scandalized agreements. She smiled up at the Doctor a minute later. "Well, no matter. Best go see to him then."

The Doctor let out a quiet breath of relief.

"Enjoy your meal!" He told them cheerfully. He practically ran over to the other tables and he spent the next four hours like this, running back and forth between disgruntled people and carting trays laden with food. He only saw Clara one other time, standing in front of a table of wealthy Ivy League men, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her spine rigid with annoyance. He didn't have the time to spare, but he sidled up beside her anyway, stilling one of the men's obvious come-ons. The Doctor hated feeling jealous and possessive, but he didn't like the way their eyes lingered on Clara's body.

"Would anyone care to hear about our specials today?" He asked loudly.

He could feel Clara's eyes on him. He reached behind her and grabbed her ass right back; biting back a smile at the smirk she suddenly gave. The men at the table couldn't see anything that had transpired between them, but he was sure people behind them had.

A man with white-blond hair nodded back towards Clara.

"She was just telling us all about the specials." He assured the Doctor. He winked. "Weren't you?"

The Doctor watched Clara's internal battle. Her posture was screaming _I'm going to kill you_ but her words were calm and full with polite laughter. He knew they didn't have the freedom to tell off anyone, for risk of losing their jobs, but he hated the leers the men gave her. And he hated the empty giggles she gave right back.

They teamed up and explained the specials, and then the Doctor was called away as he heard someone at one of his tables drop their glass. He spent a few minutes cleaning up the broken glass, his eyes wandering distractedly up to the table each time Clara returned. He saw a few blatantly staring down her shirt as she leaned over to hand them their plates, and he didn't realized he was gripping the rag full of broken glass tightly in his fist until he felt the wetness of his own blood and the sting of pain. He tucked his bleeding hand into his pocket and finished cleaning up the mess, returning to the staff bathroom as soon as he could.

He held his hand under the tap and watched the water run copper. He was leaning forward and peering at the wound, trying to assess the depth, when the bathroom door opened. The lock hadn't worked since day one, so it wasn't unusual to get barged in on.

He heard Clara's surprised voice.

"Oh—sorry! Sorry!" She said quickly. He turned and watched her immediately back out of the doorway, only to step back in a moment later, her embarrassed look faded. "Oh. It's just you."

His expression twisted. "It's _just me_?"

He said the words sourly and found he couldn't get himself to smile. He wasn't angry with her; he was cross with those men, and he knew he had no right to take it out on Clara, but he felt irritable.

Her eyebrows rose and she stepped fully into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She crossed her arms over her chest and took on her scolding stance, but then her eyes landed on his bloodied hand. Her arms fell loosely to her side as her eyebrows furrowed, and then she was at his side in a second, her soft hands gently grasping his injured one.

"What happened?" She asked. She grabbed a handful of paper towels and dabbed gently at the wound, enough to clear the blood to see that it wasn't too deep. Not deep enough to require sutures, anyway. But enough to be continuously gushing blood.

"Someone broke a glass." He explained flatly. But then because she was looking at him with that expression that always drew forth the truth, he continued. "Those men were treating you crassly. I clench my fists when I'm angry."

She sighed heavily and gave him one of her _you're impossible _looks. She threw away the bloody paper towels and grabbed some more, wetting them with warm water and compressing his injury gently. She kept her eyes on his wound as she spoke patiently.

"Putting up with it is part of the job. I don't need you to defend my honor. It shouldn't happen, but it does, and sure they were annoying, but I got seventy dollars in tips and half of them only ate the appetizer." She increased the pressure on the cut slightly, turning her eyes up to meet his. Hers were full of slight disbelief. "Surely you weren't jealous?"

He looked back down at the sink, her probing glance too much. The drain had been slightly clogged since day one (management didn't care to fix up the bathrooms customers never saw) and so there was still milky pink water puddled in the bottom.

"No." He lied defensively. "Of course I wasn't."

Clara's voice was hard when she replied.

"Good. Because you'd have absolutely no reason to be." She shot back. He feared she was angry with him by her tone, but a second later she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his hand, just above where he'd been cut. When she lifted the paper towel, he was glad to see the bleeding had all but stopped. He felt brave enough to meet her eyes again. She offered him a small smile that he echoed back gladly, his heart lighter.

"Now, we've both got tables to tend to." She reminded him. She winked at him. "And your table of enamored elderly women spent a long time talking about tip. Might want to go see what they left."

Most of him expected that they'd decided not to tip him at all, because he was usually overwhelmingly pessimistic. But he took Clara's extended hand and walked with her to the kitchen door, where she kissed his cheek and went her separate way. He spent ten minutes rushing orders out to people and refilling drinks, and then he went back to the table to gather his tips. At first he assumed he'd been shorted like he'd feared, because all he saw was a creamy white envelope with a gold leaf edge, but then he saw his name written on the back of it. He picked it up quickly and stuffed it into his apron, hurrying to his next table, but it felt impossibly heavy the rest of the night.

He sat beside Clara on the subway, her head on his shoulder and her hands folded neatly in her lap as she snoozed. They hadn't finished up until after midnight, so there weren't as many people in the car as there normally were. He pulled the thick envelope from his pocket and untucked the flap in the shaky subway light, revealing stacks of one hundred dollar bills. He felt his stomach plummet in shock as he quickly tipped the envelope over, emptying the contents onto his lap. He riffled through them quickly, adding it up in his head—

He sat up, accidentally sending Clara's head lolling forward in her sleep. He quickly cupped her head and brought it back to his shoulder in his new position, but then he was giving her shoulders a gentle shake.

"Clara, wake up," he whispered urgently. She gave a quiet moan and seemed to consider his plea before opening her eyes and lifting her head. She turned to him tiredly.

"Hmm?" She asked.

He looked down at his lap. She followed his gaze and he watched as her lips parted softly, her eyes widening just slightly.

"Dear God," she breathed. "Who gave you that?! Did you sleep with someone? Who even carries that much cash around anymore?!"

He realized he'd been holding his hands at his chest, like he was afraid to touch the money in his lap. He shook his head.

"Those rich women. And people who see these bills as dollar bills, I guess." He responded. His voice was dumbstruck. It took a moment to remember her second question. He turned to her in disbelief that she'd even ask that, only to grin smugly a moment later as the implications of her question set in. "Why? Do you think my sexual skills are worth this much?"

Clara seemed equally uneasy. She didn't touch the money either, her eyes still wide. She either missed his teasing question or decided now wasn't the time to talk about it, because she skimmed right over it in her reply.

"You don't think they're drug dealers, do you?" She asked worriedly.

It had been the last question he expected. His awe turned to amusement as he looked at her.

"Clara, I don't think little old ladies are drug dealers. Most likely they're old money." He said.

She leaned back away from the money anyway, like it was infected.

"Still. What if it's illegal and we get arrested? Maybe we should give it back. How much is it, anyway? Was there any sort of note?"

He felt slightly nauseated. "Four thousand. And I don't think so."

She reached over the money carefully and took the envelope. She pulled it open and peered in critically, pulling out a smaller envelope wedged inside that he'd missed before. She opened it and pulled out what look like two vouchers and a small note.

"'For your tickets home—and a weekend of relaxation before the flight. Thanks for reminding us of young love. Stay happy.'" Clara read off. She lowered the small piece of paper, her eyes even wider. "What on _earth_ did you tell them?"

He scratched his face anxiously. "I just…told them that you're my wife and that we're working to save up for plane tickets! What are those other pieces of paper?"

Clara lifted them up and scanned her eyes over them. "They're bloody coupons for a free weekend at the Born Again luxury spa! That giant stone building on the Upper East Side!" She let them fall into her lap and looked up at the Doctor. "I bet one of those women owns it. That place is loaded."

He pulled them from her lap and scanned his eyes over the fine print. "I wonder if we can exchange them for—ah, no. You can only use them."

Clara snatched them back. "Exchange them?! No way! That's a free weekend of massages!"

The Doctor grimaced. "You want random people to rub your naked body down with oil?"

"I _need _random people to rub my body down with oil. My spine cracks when I stand up from a chair." She replied.

He frowned. "You're going to guilt me into going with you, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "I'd like to have you there with me, but Amy and Rory are coming down. I bet one of them would go with me."

He looked at her oddly. "You've never even met them. Why would you assume they'd like spas?"

Clara shrugged. "One of them is bound to. Amy probably."

As they neared their stop, he gathered the money with light hands and pushed it back into the envelope, thinking silently about those women. He wondered what kind of terrible experiences they'd had with love that made the mere sight of him and Clara regain their hope. And he hoped, more than anything, that they could and would stay happy like they asked.

* * *

It turned out that Clara was right about one thing at least: one of the duo liked spas.

Clara and Rory hit it off from the moment they met. The Doctor and Clara met the two at the airport, Amy with a shoulder bag and Rory trotting along behind her, bow-legged underneath the weight of the two giant suitcases stacked in his arms. After the Doctor and Amy hugged and Amy and Clara exchanged slightly hesitant and unsure greetings, Clara's eyes locked on Rory, who happened to be teetering forward at that moment in time. She hurried forward and caught the falling suitcase in her own arms, and the sudden relief of half the weight in his arms helped Rory regain his balance. He grinned in thanks down at Clara and the two spent the rest of the ride back joking about how Clara was his savior.

The four went out for dinner together that night and the Doctor tried his hardest to keep from leaving Clara out, but of course Amy and Rory wanted to reminisce about their shared time in Cardiff together. The Doctor felt torn between his desire to joke with his friends and his need to protect Clara, understanding that while he'd been playing pranks on professors with Amy and Rory Clara had been at home, burying her mother. But soon Rory mentioned some book he'd read as a child, that happened to be Clara's favorite as a girl as well, and soon the conversation between the two was blossoming.

After eating, Rory and Amy walked to the bar to order another round of drinks, insisting on treating Clara and the Doctor to seconds as their "wedding gift". The Doctor observed Clara's contented smile and alcohol-flushed face for a moment, tracing his eyes down her shoulders to her slightly-translucent blouse. He wanted to untuck it from her skirt and push his hands up, knowing from this morning when they got dressed that she was wearing the soft bra that made fondling all that much more fun, but he knew that'd be extremely obvious. She bit her lip thoughtfully, peering down at a scratch in the table's surface and tracing it with her thumbnail, and then he couldn't help himself. He moved closer to Clara and slid a hand up her skirt, splaying his fingers out on her upper thigh. She gave a start, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Dear _God_ your hands are cold!" She cried, pushing his hand from her leg. "Are you getting sick?" She lifted her hand as if to feel his forehead.

He pouted and batted her hand away. "I'm not feverish. I want to touch you. We've had our hands off each other for like…twelve hours."

Clara took his hand between hers and rubbed it vigorously, even blowing on it, as if she were trying to defrost it. Then she glanced over the table towards the bar.

"I know what you have in mind, but no such luck; they're already giving the bartender the orders." She informed him.

He grinned coyly at her, his warmed hand returning to its previous spot underneath her skirt. "It'll be like a race."

She squirmed as his hand traced further up, biting her lip again and turning her eyes back towards their friends.

"Doctor, they're literally going to be maybe two more minutes," she pointed out, but then he pushed his fingers underneath the elastic band of her underwear and her next words died on her lips.

She shifted and casually rested her elbow on the table top, partially hiding her face in her hand. The Doctor set his other elbow on the table top and turned towards her like they were having a conversation, his knees brushing the underside of the table and effectively hiding his hand from anyone else's view. His fingers crept lower, mapping out familiar territory, and Clara disguised a sharp gasp as a ragged cough when he found exactly what he was looking for. He scanned the other tables innocently, making sure no one's eyes were on them, and then he looked for Amy's red hair. They were still at the bar, chatting with another person and waiting on their drinks. He turned back to Clara. Her face was red and hidden partially behind her shirt sleeve, her eyes hooded and glassy. It made warmth shoot straight down to his groin. Lust tangled with affection to the point that it was difficult for him to determine what exactly he was feeling.

"You're so beautiful." He told her softly. She moved her hand so her palm was covering her mouth, her thumb resting against her cheekbone. He saw her chest rise as she took a deep breath and he couldn't help but increase his stroking, knowing that's what her body needed, even if he shouldn't have.

"Doctor." She warned sharply. She lifted her other hand and set it on his forearm, gripping him like she needed support to stay upright. He suddenly panicked that she really didn't like what he was doing and he stopped abruptly, his eyebrows pulled down in concern, but then she gripped his arm tighter and let out a frustrated groan.

"_Seriously_?" She hissed in disbelief. He leaned his face forward and pressed it into the crook of her neck. He could feel her pulse against his forehead, pounding hard in her veins, and he kissed her as he resumed his earlier ministrations with renewed confidence. Amy and Rory were just taking their drinks when she turned her face, pressing it into her forearm, and let out a quiet gasp. The Doctor could feel her leg muscles quivering and he moved his hand back to her thigh, stroking the soft skin between her leg and groin with his thumb as she moved her face to his neck. He stroked her hair with the hand not currently underneath her skirt, feeling the slight dampness on the back of her neck and reveling in the boneless way she sank into his embrace.

He kissed the curve of her neck as she wound her arms around his middle, clutching him tightly. He could still feel her heart pounding away against his.

"See? Who needs a spa?" He whispered.

She went to reply but only let out a deep exhalation. And then Amy and Rory had joined them again. The Doctor casually moved his hand out from underneath her skirt, moving it back onto his lap as they placed the drinks on the table, their eyes on Clara in concern.

"She's feeling sick." He lied smoothly. "I'm going to take her to the bathroom."

Rory slid across the booth, resuming his seat beside Clara. He squared his shoulders confidently.

"Let me look her over, I'm studying to be a nurse, remember?" He said helpfully.

Clara flinched away from him and closer to the Doctor. He was sure her face was still flushed. He knew for a fact her heart was still pounding. He smiled gratefully at Rory.

"Thanks, but I think it's just because she drank her drink so quickly. I'll take her and come back for you if she starts to look worse than normal." He said.

He made a show of wrapping an arm around Clara's waist and helping pull her from the booth. She leaned against his side as they walked to the bathroom. She was playing the part so well that the Doctor worried briefly that he had somehow hurt her, but when he glanced down at her face, she was hiding a smirk.

He pulled her into the men's toilets, checking each stall before latching the door behind them. She was yanking her blouse up when he looked back at her, trying to cool down.

"I can't _believe_ you did that," she exclaimed. She tucked her shirt underneath her bra and he was surprised to see that even her naval was glistening slightly. She seemed torn between disapproval and surprise.

"Should I not have?" He worried.

She pressed her hand back to her face. "I just feel bad for Amy and Rory because we lied to them."

"They once had sex during my birthday celebration. In my bed." He shared. That seemed to disperse all of her guilt, leaving only breathless astonishment.

"How come you never touch me like that when we're home and in our bed?" She demanded.

He gaped in insult. "That's exactly how I always touch you!"

She leaned over the sink and took a moment to wet a paper towel. She pressed it to her forehead.

"You tease more at home." She explained. "That was…intense. I didn't know your fingers could even move that quickly."

He reached up and adjusted his bowtie, her compliment somehow making his own heart rate pick up. "Intense in a good way?" He asked hopefully.

She shifted her weight and nodded. "In a great way. In a 's_hag me in the pub toilets'_ kind of way."

He grinned wickedly at her. "Maybe public displays are just a turn on for you. I learn something new about you every day."

She grimaced. "Public displays do not turn me on. The precise circling of your surgical fingers do. And just you wait until I get you back, John Smith."

He gulped. "You can't. My orgasms are impossible to hide."

She blinked at him. "I didn't say I was necessarily going to get you back in public."

He flushed with excitement. "You're getting me going, to put it lightly."

She glanced down at his lap and moved her eyes back up to his face, her face pinking again. "I meant what I said about shagging me in the toilets. This toilet. Right now."

He didn't have to be told twice. He set his hands on her hips and lifted her up onto the edge of the sink, pushing her skirt all the way up this time. Her hands pushed his clothing away and he removed the last of hers, and by the time they were walking back to the table, Rory and Amy were finished with their drinks (and the ones they'd bought for them too).

Rory appraised Clara. He set a clinical hand on her forehead.

"You're burning up." He informed her. He peered into her face. "Did you get sick?"

She opened her mouth to say something but then closed it, nodding instead. Rory looked to the Doctor and frowned.

"You're not looking too good either, mate. Your face is flushed."

The Doctor heaved a sigh. "Vomit makes me nauseated. The irony."

The four left early and went back to the hotel Amy and Rory were staying in. After a few minutes Clara slowly began acting better and better until she appeared to their guests to be completely over her sick spell. They spent the rest of the night watching a movie, Amy in the circle of Rory's arms and Clara sitting between the Doctor's legs. He liked the weight of her body against his and he paid more attention to the smell of her skin than the movie. At the end of the night, Clara brought up the spa tickets, earning her a long retelling of a spa horror story from Amy.

"Never again." Amy vowed at the end of her story. Her lips were set in a firm line.

Rory shrugged. "I'll go. We've just started hospital interns and my feet are already aching."

Clara beamed happily. "Brilliant!" She turned to the Doctor. "See? Told you one of them would want to go."

He grimaced. "Do you have to go? I can _assist_ you whenever you're feeling tense. You don't have to leave for a whole weekend to go to some fancy massage place."

She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. "No, I can feel my pores widening as we speak. I need a mud mask made from the soil of a tropical country."

"Your pores are fine." He whined.

Amy looped her arm with his. "Come on, Doctor. It'll give us a chance to catch up."

He smiled begrudgingly at his friend, perking up slightly. "That's true. We could get milkshakes."

Amy beamed. "Like the old days!"

They all said goodbye and set up a time to meet up the next day, and then they went their separate ways. Once Clara and the Doctor were back in their motel room, the Doctor reclined on the bed and Clara pounced on top of him. She peered down at him seriously.

"That woman is made of legs. That's the most legs on any living human." She informed him, as if he didn't know.

He nodded thoughtfully. "She does have great legs."

He felt her glare. When he lifted his head and met her stern eyes, he grimaced.

"I don't want you getting acquainted with what's between those legs while I'm gone, okay?" She said.

The Doctor actually gagged. "Uck! Clara, trust me, I'm saying that as an objective fact. Amy is like…god, she's like my big sister, or mother, or something. Ugh." He shuddered. Something occurred to him suddenly. "And I don't want you to get acquainted with any oily parts of Rory while you two are getting a rub-down."

She scrunched up her nose. "Not my type. I like my men with big chins and bowties."

He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "And bedroom skills worth four thousand dollars."

She settled back down against him. "Don't push it."

* * *

The next day, after Rory and Clara disappeared into the spa with weekend bags and excited smiles, the Doctor and Amy shared mischievous smiles.

"What should we do, Raggedy Man?" Amy asked.

The Doctor clapped gleefully. "Let's go graffiti something! Or ring the mayer's doorbell and then run away! Or steal books from the library! Or…or…go get coffee in Central Park!"

They ended up getting lunch in Central Park and then grabbing coffees to go, so they could take a walk through an interesting cemetery and catch up. Of course, that was when everything went downhill.

* * *

"Turn to your left." The officer ordered in a bored voice.

The Doctor turned to his left obediently, smiling by instinct before the camera went off. The policeman looked up with a frown.

"Sir, please do not smile." He reminded him.

The Doctor hurriedly wiped the smile from his face. "Sorry."

He was led by the elbow to a holding cell, where a cross Amy was already waiting. She was covered in dirt and reeked of sweat. The officer slammed the bars shut behind him and locked it firmly, going to the table in a far corner. The Doctor sat down beside his friend, heaving a sigh.

"Did they believe you?" He asked his friend lowly.

She glared at her feet. "No. Of course not."

He slammed his feet angrily into the concrete floor. "They were moving!" He yelled angrily to the officer in the corner. "I swear they were! We weren't trying to steal your angel statues! We were trying to figure out how they were _moving on their own_!"

The officer didn't even look up from his laptop. "You were in the middle of a historical landmark, heaving a statue up from the ground."

The Doctor groaned. "Yes, but that was because it was _moving on its own_!"

The officer clicked something and laughed briefly. He lifted his eyes back towards the two. "There is no way it was moving on its own. Once we get you two tested for drugs we'll figure out just what made you think they were moving."

Amy rose to her feet. "You can't make me take a drug test! I know my rights, so you'd better watch it! My friend is studying law and I'll give her a ring and—and…"

Amy stopped. "And she'll kick your—"

The Doctor reached up and grabbed Amy's arm, giving her a tug and pulling her back down beside him. "Amy, River can't help you. We're in America. No one can help us. We're doomed."

She made a move to stand again, but the Doctor restrained her. She glared. "I am not on drugs!"

"I know you aren't. It's them who don't." The Doctor responded. She turned to him angrily.

"I wasn't talking to you, idiot!"

He stopped talking. He spent the next ten minutes wracking his brain for information on the American justice system. There wasn't much. Everything he'd learned in school had evaporated. He'd spent too much time in a hot car, probably.

"Hey!" He said suddenly, lifting his head from his hands. "My phone call! I get a phone call!"

He rose up and ran to the bars, gripping the cold metal in his hands. "Hey, I want my phone call! I know I get one, I've seen a collection of Law and Order!"

The officer looked up from his screen and cursed underneath his breath, murmuring something darkly about Law and Order. He rose tiredly from his chair and took his time unlocking the cell. The Doctor turned to Amy.

"I'll try Clara, you try Rory. We each get one." He informed her. She nodded.

He followed the officer into the next room, where a phone box was waiting in the corner. He walked in and sat on the small wooden seat, quickly punching in the number the spa had told him to call. He listened to an annoying intro message about their "Halloween Day Specials" and then gave a jolt when someone picked up.

"Born Again Spa." They greeted.

The Doctor gripped the phone tightly. "Yes! It's me, the Doctor. I need to speak to a person there. Clara Oswald-Smith."

He waited to hear the rustling sound of paper, like he had every other time he'd called today, but instead he only heard a tired sigh.

"Mr. Smith, this is the fourth time you've called today. Our clients are only permitted three phone calls a day. It's part of the _No Distractions, New You _clause in our program."

The Doctor frowned. "Hang on, I have not called four times already!"

Her voice was deadpanned. "I've written down the times of each call today. You've called three times since ten AM."

He bit his lips. "Perhaps I have."

He only had another minute. He resorted to begging. "Please, please, please let me talk to my wife! I only have a few more seconds! I'm locked up and I need her to come bail me out!"

"We do not transfer calls from jail institutions." She said flatly.

He groaned loudly. "I'm not—I'm not a random inmate! I'm her husband!"

"Don't care." She responded dryly.

He threw his head back into the wall angrily. He hissed from the pain and then moved the phone to his other ear.

"Please, just let me talk to her for a few seconds!"

She heaved a sigh. "I am not allowed to transfer more than three calls a day. This was explained to you and our client upon drop off. But I can read you the personalized message she left in the event of an over-step of the call limitations."

He whimpered. "Fine, fine. Read it then. You're digging my grave, just so you know. You have my blood on your hands."

She ignored his overdramatic blame and began reading the message Clara left. "'Doctor, you have to get the wireless wifi _password_! The reason it keeps kicking you out at Starbucks is because you have to go up to the barrista and get the password, okay? It's encrypted. I'm in the middle of a wax massage. I love you more than my own life, but if you call me about the Starbucks wireless internet one more time, I'm going to kill you. Bye. Love you. Sleep well tonight and I'll talk to you tomorrow. Take a hot bath and think of me.'" The woman finished reading off. "Ugh, do they always _have_ to leave awkward messages for me to read out loud?"

Her voice faded as a recorded voice on the Doctor's end informed him that he only had thirty more seconds. He let out a small scream.

"PLEASE LET ME TALK TO MY WIFE!" He begged.

"Thank you for calling the Born Again Spa, where we revive all deaths and give life anew." She said. He could hear the false smile in her voice and then the phone call ended.

He pouted the entire walk back to the holding cell. He grabbed Amy's shoulders seriously.

"Amy, how many times have you called Rory today?"

She gave him a look. "Not even once because we just dropped them off this morning and I'm not a spastic clinger like you are."

He glared. "I do not _cling_." He argued. "Tell Rory to come save us!"

She nodded. "He always does."

The Doctor gnawed his lip while Amy was gone. When she returned, her face covered in a tranquil smile, he let out a relieved smile.

"Oh thank God! Rory's coming to save us!"

Amy sat down beside him. "Like I said. He always does."

"He does! Good old Rory!" He said affectionately.

It was another hour before the officer rose tiredly from the desk. He opened the cell and pulled the door back, motioning for them to follow him.

"Your asses have been bailed." He informed them. He eyed them up and down. "Before the drug tests. Lucky you."

The Doctor thought he was just trying to scare them, but he wasn't sure. He followed him to a carpeted room where he spotted Clara and Rory. They looked overwhelmingly grumpy, with wet hair and clean faces.

The Doctor practically skipped to Clara once they told him he was "free to go". She crossed his arms before he stopped in front of her, her eyebrows lowered angrily. He faltered.

"It was two hundred dollars to bail you out. They said you were arrested for attempted theft and vandalism of a historical artifact." She informed him. "_And_ we had to pay a fifty dollar early-release fee at the spa."

The Doctor scratched his face awkwardly. "I'm sorry?"

She glared. "What did you do?"

He shifted sheepishly. "The angel statues were moving. We were trying to see why."

She kneaded her forehead tiredly. "Doctor. Haven't you seen enough horror films? If something that isn't supposed to move is moving, you don't go CLOSER! You—as they say here—get the hell out of Dodge!"

He frowned. "What?"

She threw her head back and groaned. Her voice was lowered to a whisper when she spoke. "I was in a sauna and now I'm going to have to sneak into a cemetery with you because I'm curious."

He felt his heart swell with affection. He tapped her nose and lowered his voice as well. "See? You're just as bad as I am."

She pointed sternly at him. "But I'm _not_ touching it. I'm not daft."

Rory and Clara stayed cross with the two of them for about ten more minutes, but then gradually they all started laughing. Rory made a few tired jokes about the "possessed statues" and then Clara jumped onto the Doctor's back in a fit of amusement. He carried her all the way to the cemetery, chuckling periodically at Amy's jokes and Rory's amused disbelief.

Their laughter died as they reached the iron gates. In the moonlight, it was suddenly world's away from the place it'd been during the day. It had been beautiful and regal, but in the dark, it was eerie and hair-raising. The rows of neat headstones went back as far as the eye could see and the few trees were still bare from winter, causing them to cast vaguely skeletal shadows onto the dead grass. And those tall, marble statues of grinning angels were grouped right in the middle, standing in a circle with their backs to each other and their all-seeing eyes staring out at the graves. No matter where you were standing in the graveyard, at least one pair of angel eyes was on you.

"Okay. It's creepy, I'll give you that." Rory whispered. "But they look pretty stationary to me."

Amy and the Doctor exchanged knowing glances.

"Just watch." The Doctor hissed. "Watch like you aren't looking at them. Look at the tree beside that one."

They'd noticed earlier that when you were looking straight at them, they didn't actually move. It was when you were looking at something else, but had them right in your peripheral vision, that they shifted.

All four sets of eyes locked on that tree. The Doctor could hear his heart beating it was so quiet. And then, all at once, the statues seemed to take a step forward. The hair on the back of the Doctor's neck rose and he felt his skin prickle with deep fear.

"Oh." Rory said. "Okay."

The Doctor started to lower Clara back to the ground, but she tightened her legs around his waist.

"Doctor?" She asked. He could hear the brittle fear in her voice.

"Yes?" He breathed. His voice seemed impossibly loud as he could hear nothing save the breathing of the people around him.

"I may be a teeny-tiny bit terrified." She whispered.

He nodded into the darkness. They suddenly felt so exposed, with nothing to protect them. "Me too."

Amy tugged on Rory's hand. "Let's go closer."

Rory and the Doctor exchanged looks.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Amy." Rory hedged. She laughed and gave his hand a tug.

"Oh, come on! Either it's a Halloween prank or they're possessed. Either way it's a great cocktail story." She said.

Rory resisted her tugging, but finally, he began to relunctantly follow her. The Doctor hesitated in place before starting after them. Clara immediately dug her heels into his hipbones.

"No! No way!" She said. "We are not going closer!"

He stroked her ankles. "Come on! It'll be fun. You know you want to."

She dug her heels harder into his abdomen. He let out a weak grunt of pain.

"I'll be the one who says what I do and do not want, thank you!" She said, her voice thin with fear.

He leaned his head back and peered up at her, giving her a pleading expression. "Please? I'm giving you the puppy-dog face."

"I can't even see it so it's useless." She argued. He whimpered like a puppy to complete the image. Clara sighed heavily. "Fine. Dare me."

He grinned. "I dare you. No takesy-backsies."

She unlatched her legs and he helped her back onto the ground.

"Fine." She said. She turned and started walking backwards in front of him. She grinned. "Follow me."

They caught up with Amy and Rory. The Doctor saw Clara shivering from the corner of his eye, but he wasn't sure of it was from the cold or from the bone-chilling creepiness of the cemetery. Amy edged closer to the angels and then turned so her back was to them. She was about to say something to them, a jeering smile on her face, when all three stopped dead in their tracks. The Doctor's heart froze with fear as the statues closest to her began moving outward at an alarming speed.

"Amy!" Clara shrieked. Rory darted forward and grabbed his girlfriend by the waist, tugging her away from the advancing statue. Amy turned around in surprise, staring at the statue that was still progressing.

"What is it?!" Clara asked the Doctor. She grabbed onto his arm.

"I don't know!" He fretted.

Clara tugged. "This is the part where the people who live until the end of the movie run."

The Doctor was about to follow her advice when he noticed something. It was only a slight flash of silver in the moonlight, but he cocked his head to the side and peered intently at the statue.

"Hang on." He said. He pried Clara's fingers off his arm and moved closer carefully, ignoring her angry cries for him to come back. He edged closer and closer, until he could make out what was distinctly the wheel to a tiny flatbed trolley. He walked forward and circled around the statue, revealing a preteen boy, perched on the edge of the trolley, back to back with the statue. He was using his legs to push forward.

He started howling with laughter at first, but when he saw the angry look on the Doctor's face, that faded quickly to fear.

"Happy Halloween?" He said weakly.

The Doctor reached down and grabbed the kid by the elbow, hauling him up. The boy's eyes were wide with fear. He had a wide nose and a conglomeration of pimples on his forehead.

"What are you doing?!" The Doctor demanded. He heard the others coming up behind him.

The boy chuckled nervously. "Prankin' you?"

The Doctor glowered. "I got arrested because of you!" He yelled. He paused. "Wait, we were trying to lift the statue before and we didn't see any carts underneath!"

The boy grinned smugly. "We've got wheels for every other one. We only move them slightly enough to freak people out. Never enough to be blatant. You were grabbing at the wrong one, and besides, it was pointless. It took all ten of us to even lift one enough to get the wheels underneath."

The Doctor lifted his eyes from the boy and noticed the nine other sheepish preteens coming out from behind other statues.

Clara walked up to the Doctor's side. She held out the small notebook and pen she kept in her purse.

"Your mothers' phone numbers, please." She told them all.

The Doctor turned to her, his lips curling up in amusement. She was peering at them sternly.

The preteen in front of them laughed. "Yeah right! How are you going to make us?"

The Doctor tightened his grip on the boy's shirt. "We'll beat the shit out of you and mug you all to make up for the money you made us lose tonight!"

The boys peered critically at their group of four, but then Amy made a point of flexing her biceps. They exchanged fearful looks.

Clara leaned close to the Doctor.

"Really? You'd beat them?" She hissed, just low enough for him to hear and him only.

He shot her a look. "Of course not. I'm shaking them up."

She nodded and turned back to the boys. She gave the notebook a shake. "Well? What's it going to be?"

Rory crossed his arms. "Don't even try running. I'm an Olympic track star."

The Doctor heard Amy snort softly at that.

"Yeah? What's your name, then?" One of the boys near the back shot.

Rory glowered. "None of your business, kid. I'm from the UK. Give Clara the numbers."

One of the other boys frowned uneasily. "I don't know, Jonathon. I think I recognize him."

The Doctor had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"I'm also a boxer." Rory added darkly.

"He is! He is! My dad watches him on TV!" The smallest boy squeaked. "He's the Iron Grater!" He lunged forward and took the notebook from Clara's hand, scrawling a number. "My mom's name is Jennifer!"

One by one, the shaking eleven-year-olds provided their mothers' numbers and names. Clara took the list from the last boy.

"Thank you. Now I'm going to call these numbers and anyone who put down a number to anyone but the woman who birthed them or the person who legally raises them will be taught a lesson by my mate the Iron Grater." She told them.

Immediately, three boys reached for the notebook again in a panic. She held it back out to them, her lips curled up with stern humor.

"That's exactly what I thought." She said. "Put the right numbers this time."

The Doctor watched and fought back laughter as Clara sat with each boy and called their mothers. A couple boys started crying before she called and begged her not to. She looked particularly sassy when she greeted their parental figures.

After the last boy had been scolded by his mother, she ended the call and stuffed her phone back into her pocket.

"That's what you get for scaring innocent people and messing with historical landmarks." She told them. "Go home and watch horror movies or something."

They practically crawled over each other in their attempts to appease her. They nodded, muttering a mix of _"yes Miss_" and "_I'm sorry"_. Clara rose to her feet and squared her shoulders.

"And wash your hands. They're covered in dirt." She ordered. She crossed back over to the Doctor and took his hand. "Let's go home. We've got to wake up early tomorrow and try to fit in some work hours to make up for the money we lost tonight."

After laughing over mugs of tea in Amy and Rory's hotel room, Clara and the Doctor went back to their temporary home. They soaked in the tiny bathtub and counted up how much money they needed until they could go back to their real home.

"We only need three hundred more to pay off the rest of our rental car bill." The Doctor realized. "We can do that."

Clara sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. "I just want to go home. I'm actually…tired of living like this. It's been so much fun, but I'm having domestic urges."

He looked at her suspiciously. "What _kind _of domestic urges?"

They'd had a long talk before they got married about what they wanted their life together to look like. And they'd both specified no children.

"A home with a bed that other people haven't had sex in before." She said dreamily. "And a constant address. Our own china. Reliable income and responsibility."

All of those were things that would have made them terrified just a year before, but he found his own face blooming with a smile at the thought of it. He looked down at her.

"We could have our own home." He realized. His stomach fluttered. "Me and you."

Clara looked uncharacteristically giggly. "Does the idea of that make you get excited butterflies too?"

He nodded. "Lots."

She turned over onto her side, sending some water sloshing over the edge of the bathtub. She touched his chin lightly and peered at him. "I think it's time to end this chapter of our lives."

He smiled. "It's been a good one, but I think you're right. I'm developing a phobia of peanuts."

She shuddered. "Me as well. But all in all, it's been a good run. Saw all crevices of the UK, almost got killed, flew to the States on a dare from a convict, knocked out a policeman and then got drunk with him, accidentally robbed a convenience store, got married, got work visas, got jobs, got arrested…we could write a memoir."

The Doctor laughed. He'd never thought about their experiences that linearly before.

"It's definitely time to go home and buy a sofa." He decided.

She sighed happily. "How could we ever want anything more?"

He curled up with her that night and kissed her damp hair. He understood what she meant, and he missed the place they'd grown up too, but truthfully he had never left home. Because his home was anywhere she was.


	14. Secret Places

**A/n: **Sorry for the wait! One of my charges broke my laptop and I lost three almost complete chapters (as well as everything else that was on that hard drive...life is tough). I never do too well on rewrites, and I've had to update via iPhone which is a nightmare, so hopefully this isn't too terrible. A "first time" fic has been the most requested by far so here it is. Note that the rating is probably more to the M side this chapter, just as a warning.

* * *

_crossed boundaries, expressions of love, and the first _

* * *

They didn't talk much about the year they spent apart.

It was a mutually understood rule between them, one that was automatically established almost the moment Clara let him back into her life that night. At the time, it was because she didn't want to hear that he was having fun without her while she was here, secretly and silently wondering if perhaps following her mother was what she ought to have done. You can't follow someone to no where temporarily, and it was always her fear of permanence that kept her in a depressed limbo. She'd always assumed that he didn't speak of it simply because he understood how she felt. She thought he hadn't wanted to be insensitive. And truthfully she didn't want to admit to him what she had been like in his absence.

Six months passed, and then another year, and soon she had all but buried the girl that had lived without him. She felt it was right that she was dead with her mother, because that is what that girl had wanted all along. And with that version of herself's absence, she'd all but forgotten the things she'd done that year or the deep emptiness inside of herself. Until it was brought up again.

They were on summer break before their last year. It was a summer of many things: unexpected heat waves, multiple out-of-town conferences for Dave Oswald, and idle hours for exploration. They'd known each other since they were six and Clara could have told you the Doctor's favorite everything without a moment of hesitation. But she had to learn how and where he liked to be touched, and what he looked like when he was lost in pleasure, and how to let herself be loved fearlessly in return.

By August they had done nearly everything but. Empty afternoons in the searing heat and hearts brimming with affection had ensured that their hands and mouths had made plenty of journeys along each other's skin, but they had not had what parents called "traditional" sex. Clara thought about it often, mostly because the closer they became the harder it was to pull back. Sex became the thing they were withholding and neither of them knew precisely why they were, because they both agreed that sometimes everything but was exactly that. Everything but. It felt like a shortcut around something they were both avoiding despite their obvious physical desires for it, but neither breached why this was. Clara herself had been unsure herself for half of the time. She'd fall back onto the damp sheets, heart pounding and body a strange mix of satisfied and yearning, and she'd wonder why she didn't just ask him if he wanted to. She felt it was because sometimes she saw secrets in his eyes when he was separating their bodies, intent on giving and giving and giving—because there was something he couldn't take.

It was a rainy, humid day when he asked her something that made her remember keenly just what it was that was holding her back. He'd been kissing her hotly, his hands gripping her hips close to his, and she'd been subconsciously rocking hers closer to him. The contact heated them both at first—resulting in a rushed tangle of hands as they searched for buttons and zippers and clasps—but then he was pulling his mouth from hers and looking down at her with a flushed face.

"This is driving me mad." He voiced, abruptly and tortured. Clara didn't have to ask him to clarify. She let out a relieved groan and relaxed her head back onto the pillow fully.

"Thank God, I thought neither of us was ever going to bring it up." She said. She slid her hands from his hair and gripped his shoulders. "I'm so frustrated. There, I said it. This isn't enough anymore."

He let out an exhalation of relief, his posture relaxing. He rolled off of her and sat beside her supine body. She propped herself up on her elbows, feeling her chest lighten from just that one admittance. She hadn't wanted to say it before, fearing that he didn't feel the same and that he'd somehow take that as an insult to his skills in other areas, but his honesty had opened a floodgate for hers.

"I wasn't sure if you—I don't know." He hedged, looking way from her. He brought his hand up to his cheek and scratched nervously, gnawing on his bottom lip. Clara furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"Weren't sure if I what?" She pressed.

He met her eyes again. "If it would hurt. Or not. I don't want…well. You know what I mean."

She felt her arms slowly bend until she was lying back against the pillows, staring at him with an almost horrified expression. _Oh God_, she thought. Because in her quest to bury her year without him, she'd buried things that he actually might have deserved to know. She rested her hands on her stomach and fiddled with her fingers, something that he noticed and took to mean something different.

"Christ—you're nervous-fiddling. See? I knew it. You're scared. That's what I'm afraid of. You being scared or uncomfortable. Let's just—" he leaned forward and pressed his lips back to hers, kissing her with determination as if he could erase her memory of the brief conversation. But she curled her fingers around his shoulder once more and pushed him gently. He quickly sat up again, peering down at her nervously, like he'd just been rejected.

"I'm not…scared." She finally said. But the pounding of her heart and the narrowing of her throat challenged that assertion. She tried to understand why she felt so…guilty. But a moment later she realized it wasn't guilt she was feeling. It was deep regret. "I didn't tell you because…well, a lot of reasons. The main one being I don't like to think about it, the second being we don't talk about that year, and the third being my desire to pretend it never happened at all. But…"

She stopped. She sat up fully, leaning back against her headboard with a sick feeling in her heart. He watched her with trepidation for a moment before sudden understanding drew on his face. He sat back, shifting all his weight as his face creased with abrupt realization.

"Oh." He said. "I didn't realize. I didn't know you'd already…"

She looked away from him.

"It wasn't much worth talking about." She finally said. Her voice was small and disappointed. He drew his hand through his hair, his light eyebrows furrowed as he thought. She felt she was being strangled by anxiety and she just wanted him to say something.

"Was it…okay? I mean. With who?" He wanted to know.

Clara shifted uncomfortably. They were breaking so many boundaries with this one conversation that she wanted nothing more than to run and hide. But they'd made it this far.

"Callum Green." She shared hesitantly, lifting her eyes to meet his. He grimaced, probably without even realizing it.

"Callum Green? Rugby Callum?" He said incredulously. "I just saw him at the market last weekend! He—oh, God, no wonder he sneered like that!"

Clara's grimaced matched his. "Yeah, well, it was nothing special."

She took to examining her bare legs, her face flushed and her body heavy with humiliation, like she was admitting to some grave embarrassment. The memory was so shameful to her that she felt liable to cringe just from talking about it. After a long silence, she risked a hesitant glance back up at the Doctor. She was surprised to see him looking at her with acute sadness and regret.

"What?" She asked defensively. She felt she could have cried if she hadn't spent the past two years building ironclad walls against crying. "Why are you looking at me like that? I wanted to. At the time. He didn't make me."

He shook his head and looked away from her, like he hadn't even realized he was making that face. When he spoke, his words were heavy and they made Clara's heart ache more intently.

"I didn't think he did. I just…I don't know. It makes me sad that it wasn't special. That you were here with Callum having a shit time. That you'll always remember him when someone asks you about your first time." He admitted.

She shifted uneasily because it made her sad to think about those things, too. That's why she didn't think about them.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't remember much about it at all." She said. "I was drinking. And stupid. And sad. And lonely. And at some party I shouldn't have gone to with girls I shouldn't have been hanging out with."

He rubbed the back of his head. "That doesn't make me feel better at all. But this isn't about me. This is about you."

She just wanted to stop talking about it. "Yeah, well, I'm fine. Peachy keen. It was short and blurry and painful, but I did it, and I chose to do it. And now I'd like to resume pretending it never happened at all."

He kept looking at her with that sad expression and Clara shifted uneasily.

"You're making me uncomfortable. This conversation is making me uncomfortable." She admitted. She felt doubt carving into her heart with sharp nails. "Does this make you feel differently about me now?"

His sad expression went to one of concerned confusion.

"Why on earth would this change the way I feel about you?" He wanted to know.

Clara shrugged and pulled the blankets up over her, suddenly feeling exposed underneath his eyes.

"I don't know. You just thought I hadn't. And this changes things." She clarified.

He frowned. "Does it?"

She stared into his worried eyes, greener than ever. She had gone from being warm and content in their love to suddenly worrying that it was falling to pieces. "Dunno. You tell me."

He shifted closer to her hesitantly, his hands finding her blanketed thighs. He met her eyes seriously.

"Clara, I'm the one who left you here." He reminded her. The words caused a brief memory of pain to flood her heart. She looked away, but he kept talking. "I didn't want to, and I of course didn't know your mother would…I didn't mean to leave you alone to carry that. But I did. And I wasn't there for you. I should have made more of an effort to write to you. I should have run away. I should have done so many things. But I didn't, and you were here alone dealing with something terrible, and I have no plans to judge you for however you decided to handle that grief. Do I wish it hadn't happened? Yes. I do. And I know I have no right to wish that, because you aren't my property, but I hate so much that Callum touched you and didn't do it right and that you have a terrible memory of it. I hate that I wasn't the one, and I admit that. But this doesn't change anything. I still love you and I still want you."

Her nose began burning and that was the first warning sign. She sniffed and shielded her face from him with her hands, in case she actually did start crying. But she'd dealt with heavier pain and resisted stronger tears, so she didn't think it likely that she'd cry now. She was just bombarded suddenly with a memory of how much that year had hurt. When she thought back on it, it was a darkness inside of her. Everything was dark. The mornings and the days and the nights and her heart and the words she said and she walked around every day feeling empty and ringing with agony, thinking on loop that if she only had her mother again things would be okay. But her mother never came back and so she made mess after mess, thinking if she only fucked herself over enough her mother would come home to rescue her like she always did, but she didn't. And Clara was left to clean up her own mess by herself. It had been a hard lesson to learn. The hardest.

The bed creaked slightly as he shifted closer to her, enveloping her in his arms. She moved her hands so she could wrap her arms around his neck and she pressed her face into his shoulder, inhaling the mingled scent of his soap and laundry detergent.

"I want to pretend that it didn't happen." She told him. "Because it didn't matter. It was just—I was angry at my mother. So angry. And so I did risky things she never, ever would have wanted me to do with people she would have hated. I didn't care about him. I care about you. He didn't make my heart swell with love or race with excitement. He just—was there. So he wasn't my first time. The idea of that is rubbish. Whenever we have sex, that will my memory of experiencing it for the first time, because that's the time I did it because I cared about someone."

She knew all of that was true, and that it was the decision she'd made subconsciously a long time ago. It was why she hadn't told him before. He kissed underneath her ear and traced her spine with his fingertips, his warm skin returning a feeling of security to Clara's heart.

"Okay." He said simply. And it was enough. "When we do, it might not be perfect, but at least it will be loving. Because I do. I do love you."

She beamed into the curve of his neck at that, her distress ebbing away and leaving only a glow of love. "I know you do. And I love you too. Enough for us to stay "everything but" until it's the right time."

He pulled back and kissed her lips gently, his curved up into a small smile. He rested his forehead against hers afterwards. "We're different than the rest, aren't we?"

Clara resisted the urge to laugh giddily. She ran her fingers through his hair instead, leaning forward to kiss him one more time. "Yeah. We are." She decided. "We're permanent."

She'd once been afraid of permanent things, but not so much anymore.

* * *

The "right time", as it happened, was exactly two weeks ahead. Dave was in Blackpool, visiting a few houses he was thinking of buying. And Clara had stayed at home, refusing to support his decision to uproot them.

Unfortunately for her, it was a night of creaking steps and howling winds and branches that sounded like knocks on the front door. She shivered in her bed, scared of things she didn't like to put name to (the aftermath of dying and those who would have to deal with it). Logically she knew no one would break into her house with a chainsaw, but sometimes in the middle of creepy nights alone in a dark house it's difficult to listen to logic.

Her fingers pressed the Doctor's number by instinct, the number practically burned into her brain. He picked up on the first ring, knowing hers by heart just as keenly. For a moment she just listened to his few quiet breaths after he whispered a greeting, her hands curling around the phone at the same time a smile curled up on her lips.

"I just wanted to talk to you." She realized. She relaxed back onto the sheets, feeling her back muscles gradually unknot. "It's good to know you're out there."

He was bemused and sleepily. "Of course I'm out there. I'm a few houses over."

But Clara's mother had been one room over and that hadn't impeded death in the slightest. Her fears were often tangled and jarring.

"Yeah, I know." She said, slightly defensively. Her windows creaked, as if reminding her of the eerie state of the night. "I'm a little frightened. The wind's- well, you can hear it."

He muffled a yawn, presumably with his forearm (Clara could see it all as if she were in the room with him). "Just a little gust." He soothed. "Nothing to be frightened of."

She jumped slightly when she heard the stairs creak, like someone was stepping on them. She burrowed her way underneath the covers, pressing the phone harder against her ear.

"You aren't alone in a dark house," she hissed.

He yawned again, but this time it was tangled with a resigned sigh. "I'm putting on my shoes."

Clara smiled. "You don't have to come over," she said needlessly.

"No, I don't have to. But I am." He replied. Clara's smile grew into a beam. "But don't think I'm wrapped around your finger or anything. Maybe I just don't like the idea of my girlfriend alone during a storm either."

Clara rolled her eyes. "You're so wrapped around my finger."

"Perhaps a bit." He teased.

Clara stayed on the phone with him as she walked down the stairs, ending it only when she heard his footsteps on the stoop. She set the phone on the side table in the foyer and quickly unlatched the lock, yanking the door open against the suction of the wind. The Doctor's face was obscured by his long, multicolored scarf that was currently blowing up into his face. Clara reached forward and closed her fingers around his wrist, tugging him gently into her house and slamming her back into the door to get it shut. She locked it back almost immediately, intent to keep the bad weather out.

When she looked back at the Doctor, he was picking scarf threads off his tongue, his eyebrows turned down with disgust.

"Ugh, tastes dry." He commented. Clara grinned and reached for his scarf, unwinding it from his neck for the sake of pulling it around her own. The Doctor grabbed the ends and pulled on them lightly, sending her body crashing softly into his. He wrapped his arms around her in a warm hug, his smile pronounced as he kissed the top of her head.

"Thank you for coming." Clara murmured into his shirt. He chuckled tiredly.

"It's not like it's a discomfort. I get to sleep with you now!" He said gleefully. He combed his fingers through her hair thoughtfully. "But maybe we should have our own covers because you're a blanket thief and it's chilly."

Clara tightened her grip on him. "No way! I called you because I want your skin against mine."

She hadn't meant it in a suggestive manner, but he leaned back and peered intently at her anyway, his eyes twinkling.

"I didn't know you were so intent on my bare skin." He teased. Clara rolled her eyes and rose up onto her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his lightly.

"Shut up." She replied. But she was smiling as she said it.

It made her ridiculously happy to see him undressing by her bed, like he slept there every night. She watched his outer layers fall to her floor, where they stayed in a crumpled heap, and she couldn't help but imagine for a moment what it might be like if he did live here. If his clothes went into the hamper with hers. If she woke up every morning beside him. His arms wrapped around her as soon as he slid underneath the blankets and Clara melted into his embrace.

"I like when you're here. It feels permanent." She shared.

He traced the nape of her neck thoughtfully. "I like being here."

She bit back a face-splitting grin. "Good."

She pressed her face into his chest and breathed, feeling all her worry dissipate. He pressed his face against the top of her head and Clara couldn't help but wonder if he knew how much she loved him. She told him she loved him all the time, but she wondered if she'd ever stressed it enough to make him understand that he was all she believed in anymore. She was always counting words because there was no misery like knowing someone you cared about died before you told them the things you needed to. And no one ever plans on anyone they love dying. So they don't count the words until the person is no longer able to hear them, and then it doesn't even matter at all.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice startled her a bit. She was deep in thought and had assumed that he was almost asleep by the steady rhythm of his breathing.

"Nothing." She lied by instinct, but a moment later she was cringing into his chest and wondering why she did that. She didn't like to lie to him.

He kissed the top of her head, first lovingly, and then almost like he couldn't keep himself from doing it again. She shivered lightly as he lowered his face to her neck, sweeping her hair aside for the sake of pressing his warm lips underneath her ear. She tightened her hold around his middle and leaned further into him.

"Is this a genuine nothing or a Clara nothing?" He wondered. His breath was warm against her skin and it made an unexpected shock of pleasure shoot down her body. She squirmed a little closer in response, her heart swelling with an odd mix of adoration and excitement.

"A Clara nothing." She admitted. She sounded preoccupied to herself, something that she didn't try to hide as her hands ghosted over his back. She had long spent hours tracing the contours of his muscles, but she never grew tired of it. When he slid down slightly, keeping his lips against her neck, she could feel the shift underneath her hands. He kissed her again, this time on the web of skin right above her collarbone, and the sensation sent another wave of arousal skimming down her spine. She hadn't thought she was in the mood for anything, with the creepy wind and the chilly house, but suddenly it was feeling much brighter and safer than before. Perhaps because she was intertwined with him like he was her home, like he was the safe place she was dwelling, and he was.

"So give me a Clara truth." He countered. Clara wondered if he knew how he was affecting her, but then she realized that he must have, because his voice was almost cocky against her skin, like he knew how his warm breath was tugging her nearer and nearer. He knew her inside and out, after all. Every fear, every secret joy. It'd always been that way.

"I was just thinking about death." She admitted. She expected him to freak out, but he calmly ran his nose along her collarbone, taking the time to underline it with small, gentle kisses. His body was leaning further into hers bit by bit until she found herself on her back, looking down at the top of his head as he mapped out the curve of her neck with his lips, and she couldn't remember moving. She had the impulse to slide underneath him fully, to hook a leg around him and an arm around his neck and bring their bodies flush together, but at the moment his quiet exhalations and kisses were bringing a warm, safe glow to her body. One that she felt content to lie and enjoy despite her body's impatient desires. The more his lips came in contact with her skin, the more she seemed to say, until she was admitting it all without any worried questioning from him. "I was thinking about how sometimes people don't say the things they want to before people go. And how sometimes people die without knowing how much people love them. And I wondered if...I'd said it right. Or enough. If you understand just how much I care about you. Love you."

It was that that lifted his head, causing his eyes to meet hers. His cheeks were flushed from her body heat, his hair slightly dishelved. Something about the color of his eyes made her feel another lick of pleasure. He peered at her intently, his mouth puckered almost thoughtfully.

"I wonder that all the time." He admitted suddenly. His voice was gravely and quiet. He was always setting the tone with them and Clara understood by that deepness that the mood was just as she'd felt. "I wonder if you know."

Clara lifted herself up on her elbows, causing her chest to almost press into his (which, subconsciously, might have been her intent). She was always trying to crawl closer to him, to sink into his skin and his mind and his heart, to become a unit that would never be compatible with separation. She liked to know they had twin worries.

"But you're so good at saying it." She finally argued. "You do such sweet things for me. You bring me flowers, you take care of me when I'm sick, you read out loud to me when I'm tired. You kiss me like it's the most important task you'll ever do. And I want to do things like that for you too, but I feel like I don't enough."

And perhaps it was only through the breaking of rules and the forgoing of secrets that complete unity could be made, because his next words were typically forbidden between them. It was the second time this month he'd breached the topic.

"But you do, Clara. You tell me how much you love me each day that you're with me, because you stay. And staying is...it's a big thing for me. If someone chooses to stay with you, to come back to your side day after day, it's...grandiose love. It's perfect love." He told her honestly. He bit his lip nervously for a moment, his eyes tracing down to her shoulders, and then he met her gaze again. "I feel like I'm always trying to make up for the year I left you." He admitted. "I am always haunted by the fact that I didn't save you then. And it's angsty and stupid and vaguely bigheaded, I know, but I feel this indescribable debt to you. Like I was somehow responsible for her death, or your partial one that year. And I just want to show you how much I love you."

Clara frowned and leaned back onto the pillows, her stomach twisting with sudden worries.

"Do you do all of that from guilt?" She asked quietly. She could feel sadness winding around her heart at those words. She feared they were true. "I thought it was just because you wanted to."

His mouth turned down at the corners and he shook his head hastily. He grimaced and sat up fully for the sake of slapping his palm against his forehead.

"No, no, never." He said seriously. "I do it because I love you, because I can't not do it, because you're my...well, you know. Everything." He looked down with sudden embarrassment, his cheeks pinking. "Clara. I'm really trying to ask you something, but I'm doing it awkwardly and with way too many words. Per usual."

Clara sat up as well, appraising him curiously.

"So ask me in only three words." She prompted. It was a game between them that grew from when they were children. They used to do it for fun, just to see how clever they could be, but as they grew it became a way to be blunt with each other when need be. They fell into the trap all teenage couples do and they would sometimes dance around topics, spending weeks trying to mind read or get the other to mind read, and it was always frustrating. This cut the bullshit.

He flushed darker at that. His embarrassment was so endearing that Clara had yet to feel her earlier arousal waning fully. It was a dull ache, a constant reminder of the way his mouth felt on her skin. She smiled affectionately at him as he thought.

"It's too important." He finally hedged. Clara furrowed her brow, his words not making much sense to her.

"Too important for the three word game? Or is that the question?" She asked.

He smiled briefly, his preoccupied look fading. But it returned quickly as the silence drew out and his necessity to answer grew. "Too important for the game." He clarified.

She stared at him, her curiosity swelling. She shifted closer. "So ask me in eleven."

He seemed to be reconsidering mentioning it at all. Clara-emboldened by her closer proximity and his thinking-moved even closer. She wanted to sit in his lap and wrap her legs around his waist, but she settled with moving closer to his side and leaning against him.

His hand touched her hair, her shoulders, her hip. He inhaled deeply and pressed his face against the top of her head again.

"Would you want to have sex tonight? Because I want you." He blurted.

Clara would have expected the words to have startled her, but instead they made her skin tingle and her heart jump pleasantly. She turned her head and pressed her face into his neck, letting him feel her smile. His posture relaxed after that.

"I would like that." She finally replied, a little awkwardly, but his question had been awkward as well. She found herself laughing softly into the crook of his neck, and her laughter made him laugh too, and soon they were giggling with embarrassment and anticipation, lifting their heads to find each other's eyes again. Clara felt everything but security wash away from her when she met his green eyes. She loved him and it was all she knew.

"You could have said 'Want to shag?'. That's three words." She teased.

He blushed slightly, his lips curling up with amusement. "I was playing around with 'Let's do it' but it didn't sound very romantic to me."

Clara grinned, her stomach fluttering with excitement and nervousness. Her hands were shaking but she couldn't determine which emotion it was coming from.

"Well, we can get all unromantic things out of the way right now." She decided firmly. "First, I've got condoms in here. Yeah, I know, there's such thing as too keen but there's also such thing as not keen enough."

He grinned sheepishly. "I've got some too."

Clara rolled her eyes. "You didn't remember to put a shirt on underneath your jacket but you remembered to bring condoms? _That_ might be too keen."

He scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks regaining their red color. Clara could hear her heart beating in her head and she smiled quickly at him, worrying he thought she was serious.

"Adequately prepared then," she said lightly. He chuckled in slight disbelief at that, shaking his head affectionately. "So whose are we using? Mine or yours?"

He held her cheeks and leaned forward, kissing her softly. It was a loving kiss that drew forth a genuine smile. "I'll do the honors." He decided.

She grinned playfully. "What a man."

There was an awkward fumble when he retrieved it from his pocket. He stared at it uncertainly, as if trying to decide when he should put it on. He looked back at her, meeting her eyes a little self-consciously.

"You know how I told you about River?" He asked.

Clara grimaced, feeling her muscles grow rigid. "You're not supposed to bring up kind-of exes at a time like this, I don't think."

He hurriedly continued. "I know, but, um. You know we never actually did...this." He admitted. Clara waited for him to get to the point. He took a deep breath. "So...I might be rubbish at it."

She found his self-consciousness both reassuring and endearing. She relaxed and leaned back against the pillows, staring up at him trustfully.

"I might be too, so at least we'll be rubbish together." She reassured him. She offered him a confident smile, even if she wasn't feeling fully confident herself. "Besides. Practice makes perfect, right?"

His worry lifted a bit, leaving only slightly furrowed eyebrows. He smiled and set the condom on the bedside table carefully, turning back towards her. He nodded firmly. "Right." But then he was fiddling with his fingers. "I know that you did it once before, but it was a while ago, and what if it hurts? What do I do? Should we just forget it?"

Clara reluctantly searched vague memories of that first time, trying to remember what Callum had done. Truthfully it had all lasted maybe five minutes if even that, so he hadn't had time to do much at all. She looked back at the Doctor. "I would tell you if I wanted you to stop, so unless I say that word, I'm fine." She decided. She was beginning to feel a little nervous though. "But be gentle." She added on, even though she had no doubts he would be.

He nodded fervently, intent on reassuring her. "Of course. God, Clara, of course. Christ, I'm really nervous."

She scratched her palm, meeting his eyes bravely. "Me as well. But I want to. Do you still want to?"

His eyes traced down her body once, his hot gaze returning Clara's earlier urges. "I do." He replied.

She grinned. "So. Kiss me. We have the entire night. Let's just...see where it goes."

He seemed even more reassured by that proposition. He nodded, his shoulders lowering. "Yeah. We do have all night."

She bridged the initial gap between them, meeting his lips warmly, and that was all the prompting he needed. He wove his hands into her hair and kissed her gently, gradually pushing her back into the bed and deepening the kiss. Clara had kissed him a lot, had mapped out his mouth, had felt his tongue against hers innumerable times the past year, but each time it thrilled her, and this time more than ever. She gripped him close and kissed him until his lips grew restless, and then she did listen to her instincts and hook a leg around him when his lips found her neck again. He sucked on that same spot above her collarbone that he'd been kissing before, more passionate now that he knew she wanted to go the same places he did, and she held nothing back this time. When she wanted to rock her hips into his, she did, and it sent an overwhelming shock of excited pleasure down her body when she felt his arousal. She couldn't get enough of the feel of their bodies tangled together, his most intimate areas meeting hers, and soon she was kissing him as their clothed bodies pressed together again and again.

The sensations were altogether pleasing and frustrating all at once. She could feel her body growing tight with need, but she liked to draw it out now that she knew there would actually be an end to it this time. Their hands drifted down every now and then as they kissed, stroking here and there, but before they had caressed each other to bring about the end and now that wasn't the intention, so it was a lot briefer than normal. She feared ruining the impatient tension they'd built together as she pulled back, but she knew it was now or never, and she wanted it to be now more than anything.

"I'm ready." She declared breathlessly. "Really ready."

He groaned into her neck as she unhooked her legs, separating her lower half from his. "I'm more than ready." He agreed.

Maybe there would be a time when they were practiced with this, when Clara could confidently pull the condom on for him without breaking their charged atmosphere with her slight nervousness, but that day wasn't today. She slid out of her underwear as he opened it, her eyes on his naked body. She'd seen him naked many times by now and had touched and kissed every part of him, but it was different to know they were about to be together. She was both excited and slightly anxious about it, but she knew it was what she'd wanted all along. She'd only wanted to be close to him and this was the last way to join, the only thing left. They'd already crawled into each other's hearts and minds.

His body was warm as he crawled back towards her. He kneeled between her legs, his eyes locked on hers.

"You're sure?" He prompted.

She felt better when she was staring into his eyes. The love for her outweighed the lust, reminding her hormonal mind just why they'd started all this. She had worried about not telling him she loved him enough, but she could show it. She knew he was thinking something similar as well from the determined look in his eyes.

She nodded firmly. "Absolutely."

She smiled at him, laughing briefly as he leaned down for the sake of pressing a kiss over her hipbone. He parted her legs slowly, as if giving her time to tell him to stop, and then pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He was stalling and she was suddenly okay with it. When she thought back on this moment, it wouldn't be a bad thing to remember the time he'd taken to lovingly kiss her.

When he slid up, setting one hand down on the mattress to her right to support his upper body and moving the other down to help position them, she set a hand on his shoulder.

"_You're_ sure?" She asked too.

He looked up and met her eyes. He grinned softly, his eyes filled with so much affection that Clara could do nothing but beam in response.

"Absolutely." He echoed. "Just make sure to soothe my embarrassment if this goes terribly."

She laughed nervously, humored by his honesty. "I promise." She vowed.

She shut her eyes at the sensation of rubbing against him again, feeling that slowly unwinding coil of pleasure wrapping her back up again. She gripped his shoulders tightly, taking a deep breath and bracing herself. There was a tense moment of waiting, where he hesitated and took a deep breath himself, and then there was brief, sharp pain. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and felt him stop, halfway in, staring down at her face. He was waiting to hear that word, but it never came. She turned her head and kissed his hand that was splayed out on the mattress beside her. He took that for what it was and pushed further.

The first two movements were painful-not overwhelmingly so, but enough to keep Clara's muscles rigid. She kept her eyes shut and breathed slowly, encouraging him to keep at it as she lifted her legs and hooked them back around him. At first that increased the pain, but gradually it ebbed. He was moving slowly and carefully, and when she finally opened her eyes and glanced up at him, she saw his eyes were shut now too. She let out a shaky breath and smiled at his face, painted with obvious pleasure, and tightened her legs. That caused his eyes to flutter open as he sharply inhaled, and when their eyes met, she was suddenly overwhelmed with passion and love and pleasure and a different tangle of emotions. It was the most intimate thing to stare into his eyes and feel him inside of her, and she decided right then that it was perfect. Just them together was perfect.

"Christ, Clara," he groaned. He stopped a moment later, his forehead a little damp, and took a shaking breath. "I'm-wow. This is...your eyes are so beautiful."

His stumbling words made perfect sense to Clara. She hesitantly rolled her hips up to meet him, matching the slow rhythm he'd set, and that was enough to get him moving again. The pleasure curling inside of her threatened to force her eyes shut, but she wasn't done looking at him, wasn't done soaking up the wonder and content she felt. His eyes stayed on hers as well which made her confident he felt something similar.

"I love it," she admitted, not caring how unromantic or breathless it sounded. She lifted her head and bridged the gap between their lips, kissing him sweetly. "I love you. I love being together like this."

Their movements grew quicker-Clara matching his increased pace and rhythm-and her words seem to arouse him even more. He let his eyes shut then, his lips parting, and his next words were guilty. He attempted to reach between them, to caress Clara, but his arms were shaking.

"I'm almost- you just feel so _good_." He admitted, and even though Clara knew it wasn't really a unique compliment, it made her glow with confidence anyway to know that her body could cause him so much pleasure. She was sincere as she rocked her hips into his quicker, tightening her legs once more around him, pulling him as deep as she could stand.

"It's okay," she told him. "It's not about that."

And it wasn't, not right then. There was plenty of time and plenty of ways to come, but there was only one first time with him, only one first experience of hearing him give a sudden moan and grow uncoordinated quickly, eventually letting out a sharp cry and falling down gently onto her, his body damp and shaking. She rubbed his back and kissed his neck, laughing happily into his shoulder. Her laughter seemed to further relax him, and so when he rolled off of her and onto his back beside her, he was grinning too. Clara felt a dull ache when he pulled from her, and a brief sting of the soreness to come, but it wasn't bad at all. She turned onto her side and met his eyes again. It felt weird now that he wasn't in her anymore, like they'd just gained a gaping distance in the matter of seconds (which, in a way, they had).

She didn't know what to say, but soon she didn't have to worry about saying anything, because his lips were pressing gently to hers. He kissed her and whispered _I love you _between kisses. Clara felt the sudden potential of time, the knowledge that they had so many more opportunities to experience this together. That he was hers and she was his. And she was so glad she hadn't given into the depression she felt a year ago, before she'd gotten the chance to realize how perfectly she could slot together with someone in every way you could. It was a miracle of life and their love had always been the biggest miracle of all.

"I'm sorry." He repeated needlessly against her lips, the punctuation to his declarations of love. Clara pulled back from him and peered at him clearly, with no desire to lie because she didn't need to.

"Don't be. That was the opposite of rubbish." She told him truthfully. "Besides, my dad's gone all weekend. We've got plenty of time to work on it."

He smiled lovingly at her, his eyes soft and full. "You know what I was thinking right after?"

Clara grinned. "Hopefully you're not about to recite some angsty inner monologue."

He laughed and shook his head. "No. I was thinking that I'll never forget this and that I'll never forget how lucky I am to have you."

She felt her stomach flutter at that, her heart warming bit by bit. "I'm the lucky one." She admitted. But then because it'd been so long since she'd teased him, due to the sexually charged mood mingled with rampant emotions, she added something on. "I'm also lucky that your chin didn't poke my eye out."

He chuckled almost in disbelief, peering down at her affectionately. "Oh Clara. I don't know what I'd do without you."

She grinned teasingly. "A whole lot of soloing, that's what."

They laughed until his eyes shifted again, going from light green to forest, and suddenly his hands were bolder as they caressed her skin. She could feel forgotten frustration returning to her mind as he drew her body closer to his.

"I believe I have a job to finish." He told her jokingly, his gaze intent as he stroked his fingers over her hip. She shifted closer to him, her heart rate picking up.

"Well, you _are_ the one for the job." She teased back.

And all teasing aside, he was. He always had been. He'd been the friend she ran to when she was sad, the hand she held when she was frightened, the lips she kissed for the first time. It made her more content and assured than anything else to know that, for once, there were no more secrets or boundaries between them. From that point on, they were one. She knew all about the uncertainties of life, but lying tangled up with him that night, she also knew that he wasn't going anywhere. True to his earlier words, staying was the utmost expression of love. And they would love each other to that point always.


	15. Proposition

**A/n**: you would not believe how much extra time it takes to write and proofread chapters using an iPhone. It's rough. That being said: please have mercy on me for whatever typos I might have missed! I'm also looking for a beta, so if there are any betas out there interested, I would be so grateful for the help. Thank you all so much for the reviews and for reading! You're the best.

* * *

_changed plans, gut reactions, and the weight of apologies_

* * *

After twenty frantic minutes of tearing the flat apart searching for her white bra, Clara became desperate.

She entered her dark bedroom and sat down on the Doctor's side of the bed. He was still sound asleep somehow, even though she'd taken almost everything out of their wardrobe and chest of drawers and pulled all the blankets off the bed in the span of ten minutes. She touched his chin gently, giving his shoulder a shake with her other hand.

"Doctor." She hissed.

His eyebrows furrowed and he groaned, turning his head to the side and reaching to pull the blankets up further. But the blankets were currently puddled on the floor in Clara's mad attempts to locate the undergarment and his hands made contact with Clara's towel instead. He tugged sleepily and Clara lifted her hands to hold the towel firmly to her body.

"Doctor." She repeated, louder this time. He yawned and blinked awake slowly, his eyes gradually taking in Clara. He scanned his eyes from her dry hair and made up face to the towel his hands were currently attempting to pull from her undressed body.

"Hi." He said. He grinned sleepily, lifting his eyebrows slightly. "It seems I have been trying to undress you while unconscious."

Clara grabbed his hands and peered at him seriously. "Have you seen my white bra?"

He furrowed his brow. "Yeah, of course. You were wearing it on…Tuesday? Monday? I don't know. One of the days."

He attempted to tug her down into his arms, his eyes shutting once more, but Clara pulled back. He opened his eyes blearily.

"No, I mean, I'm looking for it everywhere and I can't find it. My interview is in an hour!" She explained.

He rubbed his eyes and exhaled heavily as he thought.

"Um…did you check the laundry basket?" He suggested.

Clara nodded. "I did! I dumped it out and went through everything!"

"Hm." He thought some more. He lifted himself up onto his elbows. "Why don't you just wear your red one? Why's it have to be white?"

She looked at him in torment. "Because the blouse I bought is white! Red would show right through!"

He reached up and touched the worry line formed between her eyebrows. "So just wear one of your other white ones."

She was beginning to sweat from her panic. She lifted her hair off her neck and tried to keep from gasping. "Two of those are dark cream and one makes my breasts look uneven! I need my white one!"

He lifted his eyebrows, suddenly realizing just how freaked out she was. He quickly sat up at all the way and smoothed her hair back.

"Okay, okay." He said. "I'll help you look. Turn on the lights."

She jumped up from the bed and crossed the dim bedroom, flipping the lights on quickly. The room was in shambles with their bedding pooled on the floor and their dirty clothes strewn across the carpet. The Doctor began looking behind the furniture while Clara shimmied underneath the bed for the second time, using her phone as a flashlight.

"Do you see it?" The Doctor called to her.

"No!" She lamented. "Just some of your boxers! And a shoe. And a hanger. And—where the hell did this come from?"

Clara pushed herself out from underneath the bed and sat on her folded legs, lifting the teddy bear up in the air by its ear with a questioning look. "This is Saint John." She informed him, as if he didn't know. "How did Saint John get here? I told my dad to get rid of him last week when he was cleaning out the loft."

The Doctor was abruptly sheepish. He turned his face from her quickly and pulled the wardrobe doors open, sticking his head in.

"I don't see it in here!" He said loudly, ignoring her question. "Where's the last place you saw it?"

Clara set Saint John in her lap, turning him over and staring at his shabby fur and button eyes. She touched his tarnished black nose, not as shiny as it used to be, and then held his paws.

"Doctor. Why did you save Saint John from the trash bin?" She demanded.

He stepped fully into the wardrobe, accidentally slamming his head against the top as he did. Clara watched him fold his long limbs in and walk to the side, moving hangers about. "Maybe it got stuck in here somehow, on a hanger!"

She rose slowly, Saint John clutched in one hand and her towel held shut with the other. She peered at him suspiciously.

"Doctor." She said sternly.

He stuck his head out, a blush covering his features.

"I didn't want him to get thrown away." He told her evasively. He tried to dart back into the wardrobe but Clara lunged forward, grabbing his shoulder tightly with the hand that had been holding her towel up. It fell to her ankles in a puddle, but she didn't care. She peered intently at his expression. It was his blushing cheeks she was most interested in.

"Why?" She demanded lowly.

He gulped, his eyes tracing from hers down to her naked body. He grinned and reached boldly forward, but Clara lowered his hand with a glare.

"Don't try to fondle your way out of this one." She scolded. "Why did you rescue Saint John and hide him from me? Why wouldn't you just tell me you were feeling nostalgic?"

He gnawed on his lower lip, his face compressed guiltily.

"This really isn't the time for this conversation." He said ambiguously. He reached forward carefully and touched her shoulders. "Just go bra-less. The interviewer will be very impressed. I know I am."

His distraction techniques couldn't have been less effective had that been what he was aiming for. Clara stared at him.

"What conversation?" She pushed.

He peered past her shoulder, his eyes filled with panic, only to suddenly let out a cry of surprise.

"Clara!" He said happily. "Your bra!"

Clara turned despite herself, searching for the missing item. The Doctor pushed past her gently and raced over to the bedside table. He reached behind it and grabbed the small strap just visible near the edge and pulled the bra out from behind it, waving it above his head like a flag of surrender.

"Ta-da!" He said happily. He tossed it at her and Clara caught it swiftly, her relief overriding her suspicious confusion. She let Saint John fall to the floor as she quickly pulled the bra on, lest it disappear the moment she let it out of her sight again, and then crossed over to her chest of drawers. She pulled on underpants and tights, crossing quickly to the wardrobe to pull out her skirt and blouse. She had just touched the hangers when her eyes fell on Saint John again, and then she dropped her hand and turned back to the Doctor. He was lying on the bed again, pretending to be asleep.

"What conversation?" She asked again.

He groaned in frustration, obviously thinking she'd forgotten. "When I said you don't have time for it right now, I really meant that!"

She crossed her arms. "I don't care. Tell me. You know how I feel about secrets."

He opened his eyes and peered at her with a frown. "Sometimes it's good to have secrets. Sometimes it's better that way."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "It is _never_ better to have secrets."

He let out another frustrated groan and sat back up, staring at her incredulously. "Clara! You're not even dressed and your interview is in fifty minutes!"

She glanced down at Saint John and looked back up at the Doctor, taking in his fearful and embarrassed expression. And all at once it hit her. She felt her heart filling with lead.

"No way." She said. She glanced down at the bear and back up at the Doctor again. "You saved it for our nonexistent future children!" She accused him. She gasped when he looked down at his hands with a red face. She pointed at him in disbelief, her jaw dropped. "You did! You so did! You stole it from my dad's bin and hid it here for our future baby that—that—"

She stopped. Her arms fell loosely to her sides, her lips pursing closed. "That won't ever exist."

He glanced back up at her, his eyes injured and hesitant. "Clara, I've been thinking," he started.

She took a step back. "No. No, no, no. We've said for years that we weren't going to have children. Remember?"

He scratched his face and swallowed nervously. "I remember. But I think…I think I changed my mind."

She gaped. "Since when?!"

He fiddled with the blanket. "Since three weeks ago. When we watched Jenny."

Clara blinked at him. They'd babysat their niece for a weekend while Ten and Rose were at a conference, and while she'd greatly enjoyed it, she'd thought the Doctor was getting tired of the crying near the end of the visit. She never would have thought that he'd enjoyed it enough to suddenly decide that he wanted to have kids too. She should have known that seeing his brother with a baby would suddenly make him want it, too. They were always competing.

She was angry and she didn't know why. Maybe because this one admission had suddenly made all their future plans seem null and void. "Having a baby and watching a baby for a weekend are two _totally_ different things."

He frowned. "I know that. It just made me realize how…I don't know. How wonderful it would be. To have one of our own."

She couldn't do much but stare at him. After a few moments underneath her disbelieving gaze, he began squirming.

"Will you say something please?" He begged. "You're staring at me like I've just grown a third arm."

She crossed her arms over her chest again. "I don't really know what to say."

"Tell me how you feel about it." He suggested.

She lifted an eyebrow. "About us having children?"

"Yes."

She gestured emptily, her eyes wide with disbelief. "I feel like it's ridiculous!"

He seemed to sink down into the mattress. He frowned deeply. "Ridiculous? Why ridiculous?"

"Because you're not done training and I'm unemployed! Because we live in a one bedroom flat! Because we're relatively broke!" She listed off.

He shrugged. "We could make it work. We always have."

She threw her hands down and then stormed over to the chest of drawers, yanking open the top drawer. She moved her socks around so there was an indention in the middle of the drawer. She stepped back to examine it, her hands on her hips. "Perfect!" She declared sarcastically. She turned to face her husband. "I'll get pregnant and then the baby can sleep right here, in my sock drawer! Very cozy!"

He glared. "We could buy a crib, Clara. You're being a little overdramatic."

She nodded. "Sure. But then we have to buy bedding for the crib, and clothes for the baby, and carriers, and swings, and bibs, and diapers, and toys, and bottles, and formula, unless I breastfed, which means we then need nursing bras and breast pumps and— Christ, ugh! Having a baby is not just a romantic thing you jump into after spending the weekend with a cute baby! It's expensive and terrifying and serious!"

"I know that!" He insisted. He peered at her seriously, his hesitancy gone. He spoke calmly and persuasively and it pissed Clara off even more. "I know it isn't easy. It's the hardest thing there is. But I know we could do it, me and you. I know we would make wonderful parents."

"Sure, at the start." She said. She could feel her anger burning nastily inside of her. "But what happens if one of us loses a job? Or I start sleeping around?"

She regretted the words as soon as she said them, but it was too late. They cut through the air sharply. He leaned away from her slightly, his expression twisting.

"Don't."

She couldn't stop. How could he even suggest this, after all they'd been through as children? After all the plans they'd made together for their childless future? She felt selfishly betrayed somehow, like he'd morphed into someone else during the night and hadn't even had the decency to tell her.

"Do you lose your job then too? Do we purchase guns for each other for Christmas and then stand in front of the Christmas tree and-"

"WE ARE NOT THEM!" He yelled, rising from the bed in one quick motion. She fell silent immediately, flinching back towards the wall at his unusual tone. He swallowed heavily, his eyes tortured, and lowered his arms back to his sides at the same time he lowered his voice, staring guiltily at her slightly scared expression. His voice was frustrated and hurt when he spoke. "For God's sake, Clara! I get this every bloody day from Tara! I don't need it from you too!"

She turned away from him guiltily. She pulled her clothes from the wardrobe, dressing swiftly to hide the fact that her hands were shaking. She wanted to go back in time and swallow the words she'd just said and let them eat away at her stomach lining until she bled out. Anything to have kept them away from his ears.

"We are not my parents." He repeated, this time quietly and measured. "Why are you doing this?"

She kept her back to him. Her eyes were burning with regret. "It's an honest question. I'm just trying—I'm just trying to remind you that you can't predict the safety of the future."

She was drowning beneath insecurities and fears, but she didn't want him to know that. She felt, for the first time in her life, that he was on the other side and she couldn't let her vulnerabilities show. She didn't like the feeling.

"And I'm trying to show you that you can't predict its tragedies, either." He said gently. He seemed to notice that his screaming had had a lasting effect on his wife and the apologies were many in his voice. But that only made Clara feel worse, because if anyone should have been apologizing for things they said, it should have been her.

She turned back around slowly once she was fully dressed, her eyes burning from tears she wouldn't shed.

"What would you do if I got leukemia like my mum?" She asked. "And you were left alone with a baby."

He stared at her with a hurt expression, his mouth slightly open. Finally, he took a steading breath and stared confidently at her.

"Then I'd thank my lucky stars that I had someone left to remember you by. That I didn't have to live the rest of my life alone without any part of you." He told her honestly.

In a way, she felt those words must have hurt her as much as her words had hurt him. Just not as maliciously. She pushed away her sadness and terror and grasped at her anger instead, willingly stirring it back up to an unbearable point. She never wanted to hurt him, not really, but this conversation was horrifying to the point that she found herself self-consciously wanting to make the ordeal so unpleasant that he'd never bring it up ever again.

Her tone was firm and cold when she spoke. "I am never having babies. Ever." He looked like she'd just told him she was moving out. "I would just ruin their lives."

But her emotions were betraying her, because in her quest to feel and cause anger, she'd only managed to feel and cause hurt.

"How could you think that?" The Doctor asked her softly. He was peering at her with concern. "Who said something to you that made you think that?"

His concern and care was worse at that moment than his anger and blame. She wanted to be yelled at, to be blamed, to be held accountable for how awful she was being. But all she saw in his eyes was love and worry.

"No one. I just know it." She said flatly. "I don't have the..."

She stopped, thinking briefly about her mother. Whenever she did, all she could think about was the way her mother always made her feel. Like the world was a beautiful place. Like she was wonderful and full of infinite potential and good.

"Hope. I don't have the hope for it." She admitted. She tagged on a lesser concern to hopefully mask the vulnerability of her first. "And I don't particularly fancy the idea of my vagina looking like someone went at it with a hacksaw."

That mental image was gruesome enough to earn her a grimace, her previous words forgotten.

"I've seen births during my schooling. On average it's just a couple of stitches. It's not _that_ bad." He hedged.

She lifted an eyebrow. "No? Okay, then you can do it. If it's 'not that bad'."

He winced. "Wrong thing to say. I said the wrong thing, didn't I?"

She glared. She was about to bring up more concerns, things like the pain and the risks and the monetary strain, but suddenly he was looking at her with an expression she just couldn't take. Hope and longing, like if he didn't get this, his life would be incomplete. Like if she didn't give him this, he wouldn't ever be truly happy. And it petrified her right to her bones, to the point that she suddenly couldn't handle being in the same room as him. She'd never worried before that what he wanted and what she wanted wouldn't correlate. That making him happy would involve doing the one thing she was most scared of. But she'd also never considered how terribly it would hurt to know, come their deaths, that he hadn't lived the life he'd wanted. And it was her fault.

She was beginning to feel almost physically ill.

"You really want this, don't you?" She realized.

He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, his eyes meeting hers. He took a few hesitant steps towards her until he was close enough to touch, not that he made a move to do so.

"I do." He admitted. "I really, really do. So much."

She didn't have to ask him if he was serious. She could see the truth of it in his eyes. She was definitely nauseated.

"I've got to go."

She grabbed her purse, checking with quivering hands to make sure her resume was still nicely tucked inside in her folder, and then she stepped quickly into their bathroom. She didn't know what she was thinking as she tossed her toothbrush into her bag. She still didn't know as she threw in a change of clothes and clean underwear, either. She just knew she felt like she couldn't breathe and suddenly it was the Doctor who was causing it, even though normally he was the one who was making it easier for her to breathe.

Her actions made him panic.

"You're coming back, right? After your interview?" His voice was high no matter how hard he'd obviously tried to keep his voice even. The tone made Clara's throat narrow dangerously. "Clara. You're coming back home, right?"

She could feel her tears working their way up. She crossed to her drawer and pulled out her mascara, foreseeing necessary touch-ups on the tube. She couldn't even meet his eyes.

"I'm going to stay at Charlotte's tonight. I need to think." She told him.

He trailed after her as she made her way to the door, drowning in worry and shivering in his boxers. His hand grasped gently at her shoulder, and it was the warmth from his skin that undid her. She ripped her shoulder from his grasp because suddenly all she wanted was to grab onto him and run as far away from him as she could all at the same time, and the two desires did not mesh. They couldn't mesh. They left Clara feeling torn and ragged.

She met his eyes before she left, because she loved him, even if in that moment she might have wished she didn't as much. He looked heartbroken and liable to have an anxiety attack at any moment. She was reminded then just how nasty and final the word "leaving" had always been to him, the little boy who was left by the people who'd made him.

"Clara, I'm sorry. Let's just forget it, okay? I didn't...this isn't what I want! I don't want you leaving! Please don't leave. Not while you're angry with me. Please." He begged.

But didn't he get it? This was all about what he wanted. About what he wanted and about what Clara doubted she could give him.

She had to leave, because her heart was crawling up her throat and every rapid blink of his eyelashes tore into her.

"I'll call you tomorrow." She promised him, because it was all that she could promise in that moment. After years of promising everything and anything, it frightened her that it took so much effort to get that measly promise out of her. His haggard face showed the same. They hadn't slept apart one night in almost eight years.

She didn't have to turn around as she walked rapidly away to know he was standing in the doorway, his fingers gripping the frame, staring after her. She grasped tightly at the flyaway ties of her heart as she walked away from him, slowly letting go of them one by one as she climbed down the stairs, until her heart was completely broken apart and she was leaning back against the stairwell wall, tasting salt on her lips. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and cried, her shoulders shaking, trying to understand why she wanted nothing more now than to run back into his arms. She didn't want to be in there with him but she didn't want to be anywhere else, either. And she suddenly feared that she was longing for a man that was slowly dying, leaving another in his body and place. Another who didn't want the things she wanted, who didn't want the version of her she was. Thoughts like that caused acute agony inside of her.

She couldn't stop crying, but she was going to be even later unless she kept moving. So she lifted her scarf and shielded her stinging, damp face as best she could, practically jogging down the icy streets in her heels. She only got onto the tube because she didn't know what else to do. Where else would she go but to this interview? This was suddenly the last tie she had with her old life plan, the last thing that she'd been planning for that didn't seem pointless or invalid now. She only knew how to believe in the Doctor and it'd been that way since her own mother died, but now she wasn't sure if she could even believe in him, so how did he expect her to believe in herself enough to bring a life into the world? How could he expect her to open her own daughter or son to the possibility of what had happened to her?

She wept pitifully into her scarf, ignoring the leers of the university boys beside her.

"Alright?" The one closest to her wanted to know. She turned her face to him, contemplating being honest. _No, I'm not. My husband wants to have children and I don't. And you don't understand why that's so hard, because he is the most wonderful man and he deserves all the happiness in the world. But I'm so scared and I think this might be the only thing strong enough to ruin our marriage._

She sniffed and reached up to wipe away her tears, smearing her makeup even worse. "Just peachy."

He looked at her doubtfully. "You don't look peachy."

She snatched the tissue his friend held out towards her, looking at her almost fearfully like he'd never seen a girl cry before. She mopped the tears on her face.

"Yeah, well, your fly's undone." She shot back. He glanced down with a blush and immediately yanked the zipper up, hiding his dingy white underpants from view.

The last time she'd cried in public had been at her mother's grave, eight months after the funeral. But even then there were only a few people scattered about the cemetery and the Doctor by her side. It was a testament to her fear that she was succumbing now, and she could only hope that it was irrational fear. That she wasn't crying because this was really, truly the beginning of the end.

She shakily fixed her makeup as best she could, but nothing could be done about her swollen, puffy eyes or red cheeks. She was shaky her entire interview and kept forgetting things. When the IT manager asked her to describe herself in three words, Clara stared at him with wide eyes. She'd expected this question. She'd worked on her answer with the Doctor. They'd decided on: level-headed, quick, and determined. But she was unraveling quickly underneath her self-hatred and fear. She could no longer grasp her heartstrings because they were giving her rope burn.

"Bossy, selfish, and vain." She admitted, and then she was thanking them for their time and hurrying from the office, her face red with humiliation.

She was no longer crying by the time she made it to Charlotte's flat, but she might as well have been. Her face was pinched and pale and she was still nauseated. She knocked once, listening patiently for the sound of her friend's footsteps. She was greeted with a gust of warm air when Charlotte pulled the door open.

"CLAR-uh." Charlotte's excited smile faded to a look of surprised concern. She opened the door wider and beckoned Clara in wordlessly, her lips pressing into a line. Clara followed her into the crowded yellow room, dropping her bag to the floor and shrugging her bag from her shoulders.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Clara asked quietly. That was answer enough to Charlotte's inquisitive expression. Her face fell.

"Oh no," she worried, her eyebrows drawing down. "I mean, yes of course you can stay, but...are you okay? What happened?"

Clara kicked her shoes off and disappeared into the kitchen, Charlotte a few, careful paces behind her. Clara's determined steps fell short halfway into the kitchen and she stood uncertainly in the middle, not quite sure what to do. She looked back up at her friend and sniffed.

"Do you have any chocolate pudding?" She asked.

Charlotte almost slipped on her socked feet in her haste to hurry to the counter. She lifted the lid to a leftovers container, revealing a fraction of one of her famous chocolate pudding cakes. She grabbed a fork and shoved the entire container into Clara's hands, stabbing the fork down into the oozy dessert.

With the dessert in her hands and her friend's concerned eyes trained on her, Clara felt herself drowning beneath her regret and fear once more. She sniffed and felt her shoulders shake as she withheld a sob, emitting instead an almost keening sound. Charlotte gaped at her, taking a hesitant step forward. She patted her shoulder uncertainly.

"There, there." She tried to soothe. "Don't cry."

Maybe it was her rebellious spirit, but being told _not_ to cry only made it impossible not to. She whimpered and pressed her free hand to her face, shielding her tears from Charlotte. She'd never cried in front of her before, and Charlotte was no good with tears, so they both weren't sure what to do. So Charlotte reached forward and grabbed the fork, scooping a huge bite of the cake up and holding it out towards Clara.

"Here, eat this!" She said desperately, waving the fork temptingly in front of Clara's face like a haggard and desperate mother trying to force her child to eat. Clara lowered her hand and peered at her friend through her tear-glazed eyes, taking in her panicked expression, and abruptly she was laughing at the ridiculousness of all of it. Charlotte let out a relieved laugh when Clara began laughing and started laughing uncertainly herself, lowering the fork back to the container. Clara laughed until she didn't know why she was laughing, and then she was hiccuping tearfully.

"I'm in misery." She admitted to her friend.

Charlotte's lips twitched. She patted her shoulder awkwardly again. "There ain't nobody who can comfort you?" She quoted.

Clara groaned as Charlotte tried her best to keep from laughing at her own pop culture reference. Clara buried her face back into her hands.

"My husband's just officially filed a request for a baby- this isn't the time to quote songs from the radio!"

Charlotte was immobile and quiet for a few painful moments.

"Christ." She breathed.

Clara looked up at her, distraught and pained. "Yeah. Want to know what the best part is? I accused him of being just like his dad, if we did have children."

Charlotte began biting her nails, her awful nervous habit. "Oh, no. Clara, you didn't."

Clara could feel her heart growing impossibly heavy, too heavy to cope with. She took a shuddering breath and shrugged her shoulders. "I did!" She affirmed, her voice laced with self-hatred. She got a flashback to the Doctor's expression as he stood in his boxers in the doorway, peering desperately after her, and her first sob in Charlotte's presence worked its way up. "He begged me not to go and I just left him there. Like he'd done something he deserved to be punished for. When all he did was tell me something that he wanted. I am such a _bitch_."

She leaned against the counter and cried bitterly, suddenly so locked up in her own regret that she didn't even notice what awkward and flustered expressions Charlotte must have been making. Charlotte was, to put it mildly, not maternal in the slightest.

Charlotte approached her hesitantly, every line of her body screaming discomfort with the situation. She patted the top of her head.

"Shhhh," she said. She just kept patting away, like she wasn't sure what else to do. And Clara kept crying angrily because she hated herself then the way she hated anyone who hurt the Doctor.

She took a shaky breath and then lowered her hands back down. "It's just- I was so _angry_ at him, and I'm still angry, because I feel like this came out of no where. We've never said we wanted to have kids. Ever. And that completely changes everything. And really, what I'm scared of more than anything else in the entire world, is that I won't be brave enough to give him children or to let him go, which will make him live out his whole life without doing what he most wanted to, and I can't handle the thought of him dying unhappy. Or being unhappy at all. I hate it. I hate it so much."

Charlotte, ever the scientist, was quick to work out clear solutions. Probably because that was the way she successfully handled all her own problems.

"Okay, so, you have outline your options and rank them to see which one will cause the least amount of emotional torment." She explained. "Here, let's go into my office, I've got my new board up."

Clara didn't budge, even when Charlotte pulled on her hand.

"What if I just lost him forever?" She whispered. There was a ever-widening hole in her chest and she was finding it difficult to breathe. "What if nothing is ever the same between us? What if I have to live without him? Oh, God."

Charlotte was patient until Clara began actually struggling to breathe, and then she patted her hard on the back.

"Clara." She said sternly. "You're thinking yourself into a needless anxiety attack. He loves you as much as you love him."

She looked up at Charlotte in agonizing panic. "What if that isn't as much as I used to think it was?"

Charlotte kneaded her forehead. "Do you even hear yourself? The fact that you're so upset proves how much you love him. Now come with me. Let's think logically about this."

Clara allowed Charlotte to pull her to the office this time, mainly because she was too busy struggling not to hyperventilate. Charlotte sat her down in the rolling chair and stood in front of the large whiteboard, erasing old algorithms and drawing a vertical line down the middle of the board.

"Okay," she started. "Our first option: saying no to babies." She drew a crude picture of a pregnant woman and then circled it, drawing a diagonal line through the circle. Clara rubbed her raw face, unsure whether she found that funny or horrifying. Her emotions were severely tangled. "On a scale of one to ten, one being "who cares?" and ten being "borderline suicidal", how bad would you feel if you told Smithy to deal with a life of no kids?"

Clara pulled her feet up into the chair and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on the top of her knees. She thought about the longing in his eyes that morning and about the sweet way he'd been with Jenny. Mostly she thought about all the moments she loved him so, like when he wandered into the kitchen on the weekends, pajama bottoms low on his hips and his hair mused up in a thousand directions. Or the way he smiled at her after sex, all flushed and affectionate. Or the way he always put their blanket in the dryer before bed on cold nights, just because he knew she liked the warmth of it.

"At least a six. And that's if he never lets his distress show even a bit." She admitted.

Charlotte whistled lowly. "And here I was hoping nothing on this board would tip past five."

Charlotte obviously hadn't grasped the depth of Clara's feelings for the Doctor. She wrote the six, peering at it in disapproval, and then moved back to the column on the left.

"Okay. Option number two. You say yes to babies, even though you don't want to. You go through with a pregnancy, the birth, and then you're stuck with the thing for eighteen years at the least. But the way this economy's going, it'll probably be more like twenty-five."

Clara shifted uneasily in the seat.

"I don't know." She admitted. "It's so hard to judge something like that because I've never experienced it before. If somehow I still didn't want it even after I had it...that would be a ten. That would be worse than a ten. Because I can't imagine how terrible I would feel to have children and know I didn't love or want them."

She was feeling shitty just thinking hypothetically about it. Charlotte hovered near the right column, the marker still in her hand.

"I'm not asking this next question to take the Doctor's side." She began firmly. "You know I hate children and I'd literally rather reach up my own vagina and tear out my uterus than have a kid, so no one understands your hesitancy more than me. But why don't you want to? I mean, if we knew the reasons, we could chart them out and stuff. I know _my_ reasons- I'm attached to my figure just the way it is, I've got the maternal instincts of a thirteen year old boy, I can't handle screaming. So what are yours?"

All Clara could think about was the way she'd felt when her mother had told her that she was going to die in a few days' time. Overwhelmingly and sickeningly let down. Terrified to the point of vomiting. So simply and devastatingly sad that Clara was sure she'd felt sadness in its purest form.

"I'm scared. That I'll mess it up. That I'll mess a child up. That I'll do something wrong, or do not enough wrong, or care too much, or not at all. I'm scared of the way it'll affect my relationship with the Doctor, with my life, with all of our plans. I'm scared of giving birth without my mum there to tell me what to expect or what to do or to just hold my hand. I'm scared of not being enough for a kid or for the Doctor or for myself. I'm scared of having something else to lose. Or being the one someone has to miss."

It was honest in a way Clara hadn't been honest to anyone but the Doctor in a very long time. She stared down at her knees, her eyes prickling with tears once more. Charlotte was quiet as she took all of that in, her brilliant mind sorting through it all and picking for solutions. Finally, Charlotte put the cap back on the marker and turned to Clara.

"That's a lot of fear, Clara." She informed her. Clara shrugged. "You can't make a logical decision that's driven by fear. Fear is maybe the strongest driving force of all, even if it doesn't seem that way."

Clara didn't know what to say. "Well, I'm scared. I can't do anything about that."

Charlotte peered at her knowingly. "You're scared because you have enough maternal instincts to care about your nonexistent children. About what having you as a mother might do to them. So your decision isn't really based on what _you_ want or what _you_ need. You're basing it on what some random person who isn't even created yet needs or deserves. Take me, for example. I don't give a fuck about my hypothetical children, because they don't exist, because I'll never let them exist, because when children scream I just want to rip my hair out. I know the kind of life that I want and it is definitely not compatible with children. I guess you just have to figure out a way to get over your fear so you can decide what kind of life you want without any emotions tainting it."

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that? You can't just make yourself not afraid of something." Clara complained.

Charlotte peered at her with furrowed eyebrows. "Of course you can. It just takes a lot of reflective thinking."

She appraised her friend. "You know, Charlotte, it's actually easier to just let your emotions control you."

Charlotte grinned crookedly at her. "I've never liked the easy way."

Clara glanced around the room, at all the half-completed complex machinery. "That's obvious."

Charlotte walked over to her and took her hands, pulling Clara to her feet.

"Come on, weepy willow. Let's go eat that pudding and forget about all of this for a little bit." She suggested.

Clara couldn't deny that that sounded exceedingly tempting. She followed her friend into the front room and they sat together on the couch, the container resting between them as they ate and watched some chainsaw massacre movie. Charlotte made hilarious commentary the entire movie, severely lessening the fear factor. Clara felt better during the movie, but soon it was quiet again and she was back to feeling that sensation of impending doom. She knew that deep down she just needed and wanted to go home and apologize to the Doctor in every way she knew how, but she was paralyzed. The longer she went without talking to him, the more worried she felt, and that only served to make her too ashamed and guilty to call.

She tossed and turned in the guest bedroom that night, trying to figure out where exactly she was supposed to put her head when the Doctor's shoulder wasn't around. Nothing felt right and the blankets were cold and it was too quiet. She spent a couple hours trying to get comfortable enough to fall asleep, but it never happened. She was quiet as she crept into Charlotte's bedroom.

"Charlotte?" She hissed.

Her friend was a notoriously light sleeper. She sat straight up, like she'd been awake the entire time. Clara felt small and pathetic in her borrowed pajamas, standing tired and depressed in her doorway.

Charlotte sighed, knowing exactly what Clara wanted. "Fine. Come on in. But I'm not doing any other marital duties with you so don't even ask."

Clara smiled a bit and hurried over, climbing underneath the covers on the other side.

"You wish I would ask." She teased Charlotte. But soon she was drifting off to sleep, comforted by the soft sound of someone else's breathing, even if it wasn't the person she needed beside her.

* * *

She woke up just as the sun was rising. She hid in the bathroom off the guest room and called the Doctor, knowing that the longer she waited the worse it would get. But that knowledge didn't stop her heart from pounding with fear and shame.

He answered on the second ring. Clara knew instinctively that he hadn't been asleep. Maybe he couldn't sleep well without her either. Maybe he hadn't even slept at all. Clara wasn't sure what she hoped for anymore.

"Morning." She greeted hesitantly.

The Doctor's voice was similarly uneasy. "Morning."

A thick silence settled over them, icy and stinging. Clara nervously ran her fingernails over her palms, staring unseeingly at the tile. She opened her mouth and tried to say something at the same time as him, resulting in quick backtracking from both of them as their words overlapped. Another silence fell over them as they both waited for the other to go ahead and speak first.

"You first." The Doctor finally urged, when neither of them said anything for fifteen seconds.

But she couldn't stand that. Because she felt that it was always her first. "No. You first. I was a bitch to you yesterday, so you can go first."

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was almost sheepish. "I was just going to ask if you slept well."

Clara rubbed her stinging eyes. "I hardly slept at all." She said honestly. Her voice was coarser than she would have liked.

That seemed to relax him. "Me neither."

Well, she supposed she wasn't surprised. She traced the molding between the tiles with her toe, taking a steading breath. She was about to try to shakily breach yesterday's topic when the Doctor spoke up.

"I just want you to come home." He admitted thickly. "I won't bring it up ever again. I promise. I'm sorry."

But there was so much wrong with that, and Clara couldn't ignore it anymore. She kneaded her forehead tiredly.

"But you shouldn't be sorry." She voiced her realization. "You shouldn't be sorry for asking for something you want."

He sniffed. "Well, I feel like shit anyway."

"It's my fault that you do. And I feel like shit because of that."

He didn't say anything. Clara was growing increasingly upset.

"I hate being apart." He said honestly. "Regardless of who should be sorry or who shouldn't, I promise not to bring it up. So just...come home. Come back."

She closed her eyes against the pain those words brought to her.

"I want to. So much." She said softly, because she did. She missed him and she missed their bed and their tiny flat. But she also knew she couldn't go back and pretend that none of this had happened. "But I don't want you to never bring it up again. I want...to understand why I'm so scared. I want to figure out what it is that I want. And I think I need some time alone to do that."

She didn't have to see him to know that he was frowning enough to cause that little line to appear between his eyebrows.

"Since when have you ever needed to be away from me to figure anything out?" He wanted to know. His voice was injured.

"Since your pain became a huge thing to consider in my decision making." She told him truthfully. "I've never before thought I might have to make a decision that would hurt you, so it's never been a problem. I can't look at you and make the right decision for myself, because when I see you, all I want is to make you happy."

He was frustrated. "Clara, I'm not going to...to...kill myself if you don't want to have children! We'll just live alone for the rest of our lives like we planned."

"But I don't know if that's what I want." She admitted.

He sighed. "Clara, yesterday you were pretty insistent that that's what you wanted."

She grimaced. "Yeah, I know. And today I'm telling you that I have no bloody idea what it is that I want. That's why I need time to think about it."

He was quiet, and then he was vulnerable. Vulnerable enough to bring tears to Clara's eyes.

"And is there a chance you'll decide that I'm not what you want?"

She blinked against the oncoming tears. She hated that he even thought that was possible.

"Never. Not ever." She swore. "You're all I want. You're all I've ever wanted. That's why this is so hard."

He took a deep breath. "Will you call me again tomorrow?"

Clara relaxed. "Of course. Of course I will. If you still want me to, that is."

His voice was incredulous. "Of course I still want you to. I'm all but begging you on my hands and knees to come back home. You're the one I'm afraid is leaving forever."

She shook her head fervently, even though he couldn't see her. "I'm not. I don't want to do that. That's one of the things that's scared me so much. I'm scared that...things will change between us. That if we do or don't have a baby it'll affect the way you feel about me." It was one of the dual-roots of the problem. That much she knew. The other root was the many problems her mother's abrupt death had caused her. "I'm so scared to lose you."

Her honesty had arrested him, that much was for sure. She listened to his breathing as he processed her admission.

"Of course things between us will change." He finally said. It made Clara's stomach plummet so forcefully she felt dizzy. "Things between us change and grow every day. Five years ago I thought it was impossible to love you anymore than I did, but today I know I do. And in another ten years I'll think back to this day and realize that I love you more still. A baby won't change that, Clara. And a lack of one won't either."

She couldn't believe those reassuring words, because they were truthfully too good to be true.

"But you'd be disappointed. If we didn't." She said. Her voice was so soft it was practically a whisper, as if the soft volume of the statement might make it less true.

"I would." He admitted. "But I would be okay."

He didn't get it. "I don't want you to be okay. I want you to be happy. I want you to be so happy."

"But I want you to be happy, too." He reminded her.

She was sick again. "What if what makes you happy isn't what makes me happy? What if we're growing apart?"

She was quivering with fear. She'd almost never felt so uncertain.

"You make me happy. And I make you happy. And that's that." He said firmly. "That much hasn't changed, and I don't think it ever could."

She couldn't forget how awful she'd been to him the day prior and she almost found it hard to believe that he could even say something like that, much less mean it.

"Promise?" She asked.

She could hear the small smile in his voice when he spoke next. "I swear it."

She smiled, even if she still didn't feel quite like it, just because she knew he'd be listening for hers. "I'll call you this time tomorrow."

"Okay. Good luck thinking." He told her genuinely.

Clara resisted the urge to laugh. "I will. Have a great day. Don't forget to eat something other than Jammie Dodgers."

His small smile was a grin now. It lightened Clara's heart considerably to hear that shift. "No promises."

She waited, uncertain if he would say it first. But in the end it didn't matter.

"I love you." She said.

His voice was tender and true. "And I love you."

That reminder made it much easier to breathe. Knowing that the Doctor loved her and always would had always made everything in life seem just a bit more manageable, a bit more simple. She could only hope that his understanding of the future was trustworthy.

* * *

On day two, she didn't cry anymore, but she couldn't get herself to do much thinking about it at all. She spent the morning combing online job postings because she'd blown her first interview, but all she could find was an ad for a new junior manager to the IT Strategy PMO for British Airways, but the listing said it required at a minimum eight years of IT working experience in the airline field, so Clara didn't even bookmark it. By the time Charlotte returned that evening, she was jobless and just as uncertain of her future as she'd been when she left. The two spent a few minutes chatting about their days, and then gradually Charlotte brought back up the baby dilemma, and the two decided to google pictures of episiotomies. Which turned out to be a huge mistake.

"DEAR GOD!" Charlotte screeched, automatically flinging her open laptop across the couch. She turned and used her feet to kick it towards the end, so it was as far away from them as possible. Clara was still staring at the air above Charlotte's knee, where the laptop had been sitting. She was feeling a bit queasy.

Charlotte crossed her legs uneasily, peering down at her friend's face. "Okay but remember whenever you google image search any ailment the worst possible case comes up."

Clara looked at her friend, her eyes wide with horror.

"When I told the Doctor I didn't want my lady parts looking like someone went at them with a hacksaw, I was just being crude! I didn't think- Charlotte, how in the _world_ do people willingly go through with that?! That's like medieval torture!"

Charlotte chewed on her thumb nail as she hesitantly yanked her computer back over onto her lap. She covered the gory image with her hand as she typed something else into the search bar. She turned the screen to Clara, revealing images of skin blistered to the point that layers were coming off.

"See? I googled 'sunburn'. Normally people don't get anything like this when they have sunburns, just a little redness, but you don't see any mild pictures like that until halfway down." She said sensibly. She patted Clara's knee. "Besides, with the frequency that you two have sex, you might not even need it."

Clara shoved Charlotte's hand off her knee, a silent scold for her snarky hit on Clara and the Doctor's sex life. She ran her thumbnail over her life line on her palm as she fretted. "If only that were true, but I don't think that's the case. Have you seen how huge baby's heads are?"

Charlotte made a gagging sound. "God, I've seen a real birth. You're giving me vivid flashbacks." She met Clara's eyes, hers wide and haunted. "It just kind of- pop!" She held her hands close together and then suddenly ripped them an arms lengths apart, her eyebrows drawn almost up to her hairline. "Wow, it was awful."

Clara slowly drew her legs up to her chest, crossing her ankles protectively. "That's it. Can't do it."

Charlotte closed her laptop and set it to the side, turning towards her friend once more. "You know, I don't think most women look up pictures of botched episiotomies before getting pregnant. Most just kind of go with the flow, I think."

Clara wrapped her arms around her legs and shook her head. "That's great and peaceful for them, but I like to know what I'm getting myself into before I make a decision. Or how badly I'll be ripped apart if I do decide to create more lives. That way the decision is fully mine, see? If I know the worst possible scenarios and I still decide to go with it, nothing can surprise me or take me off my guard. I'm prepared and willing for everything."

Charlotte stared at her for a beat. "I wasn't a psychology major or anything, but sometimes I feel like a good counseling session would do you some good. Preferably with a grief counsellor. You probably should have gone to one right after your mother died."

Clara glared hard at her and rose to her feet. She pointed an accusing finger at Charlotte. "You know what? I don't need this!" She declared. She stormed over to Charlotte's front door, feeling the girl's eyes on her back, and paused right after turning the knob. She hesitated and Charlotte took advantage of that moment.

"Where exactly are you going to go?" She reminded Clara.

Clara closed her eyes and groaned.

"To Hell. Or something. I don't know." She whispered miserably. She turned around and wrapped her arms around herself, peering uneasily at Charlotte. "I think maybe you're right."

Charlotte shrugged. "I usually am."

Clara waved her hand around Charlotte's hectic flat. "But you should see someone about your obvious hoarding problems."

Charlotte gasped in insult. "I do _not_ have a hoarding problem!"

Clara reached to her right blindly and grabbed the first thing her hands fell on. She lifted it to view and then looked accusingly at Charlotte. "Exhibit A. A cleaned takeaway coffee cup. You actually took the lid off and washed it and kept it."

Charlotte almost tripped in her hurry to rip the cup from Clara's hands. She cradled it protectively. "Okay, this is not _just_ a coffee cup! This is the coffee cup I was drinking from when I got my very first praise from my first robotics professor!"

Clara knew her jaw was dropped and she was staring, but she couldn't help it. "You save coffee cups from pivotal moments in your life?"

Charlotte looked almost guiltily to Clara's right. Clara turned and found herself staring at a slightly well-concealed pyramid of washed Starbucks and cafe cups. She gaped. It was spectacularly camouflaged behind the huge stack of outdated newspapers. Charlotte reached over and carefully pulled one off a bottom row, waving it up so Clara could see it.

"This is the cup I was drinking from the first time we ever studied together!" She informed Clara proudly.

Clara was torn between disapproval at her hoarding and flattery. "That's slightly strange but nevertheless deeply touching, Charlotte. Thank you."

Charlotte smiled at her smugly. "See? It's not hoarding. Just collecting."

Clara couldn't really agree with that, but she supposed she was the last one who had room to talk about the way emotional issues manifested. She'd ran away from her husband after slinging insults simply because he'd saved a teddy bear.

She slept in the guest bed that night, figuring she was no closer to making a decision and therefore better get used to sleeping alone. She successfully drifted off to sleep but woke up halfway through the night, forgetting for a moment where she was. It had long been a habit of hers to wake around four and reach across the sheets, just to make sure the Doctor was still there and breathing, so when she felt only space she jerked awake, her heart pounding hard in her throat. She felt another swell of crippling sadness when she remembered where she was and who wasn't here with her. She knew she'd told him she would call in the morning, but suddenly those few hours seemed an impossibly long time. The phone only rang once before he answered this time.

"I was just thinking about you." He admitted. His voice was just as alert as Clara's was.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you." She shared, maybe because she was still caught up in sleep's sticky web enough to lower her defenses.

"Have you been doing any thinking about anything else?" He wanted to know. Clara knew that was his subtle way of asking if she was ready to come home yet.

"I tried. Didn't get very far." She admitted. She felt herself growing gradually more upset. She thought about Charlotte's words the night prior. "I think there's something wrong with me."

Her admission felt loud and ugly in the silent room. The Doctor was quiet, probably because he was shaking his head.

"No." He said firmly. "There's nothing wrong with you, Clara. Not at all."

She rubbed her eyes. "Then why am I so afraid?"

He wasn't sure what to say. He made a few uncertain sounds before settling on an answer. "Because it's a big thing. Because you care more about people than anyone else I know."

She wasn't sure if she believed that anymore, but she didn't want to argue with him. She wanted him to think good of her, because she wanted him to stay.

"Will you stay on the phone with me?" She asked.

He didn't think anything of it. "Of course I will."

She gripped the phone tightly in her right hand and kept it pressed to her ear, pulling the blankets up to her shoulders with her other hand. Knowing that he was there kept the swell of panic and worry from overtaking here again, but soon she was underneath it once more. She pressed her mouth into the pillow as she cried, hoping he wouldn't hear it. But she knew he had.

"I didn't mean to make you so unhappy." He finally whispered, a little while after her not-so-secretive crying had bottomed out. His voice was tortured. Clara kept her face hidden in the damp pillow, as if he could see her somehow.

"It's not you that's doing it." She admitted thickly. "It's all me. But I don't know how to stop it."

But she knew that also wasn't completely true. Because he had been the one to bring it up. Clara thought wistfully that, if he wouldn't have ever felt that desire, things would be normal between them right now. She would feel whole and secure and she'd be with him. But anger and blame mended nothing.

Crying took her last bit of energy from her, and she drifted off to sleep a while later, that faraway sound of the Doctor's breathing both a comfort and a misery.

* * *

Day three was worse than two. She spent the entire day scrubbing the kitchen and bathrooms, needing an outlet for all her pent up anger and sadness. She didn't dare disturb the orderly piles of junk in the other rooms for fear of devastating her friend. Charlotte had told her any room with tile was fair game though.

She smelt strongly of bleach when Charlotte returned from her most recent job. Her friend sighed.

"I'm guessing you didn't do much thinking today. And if you've been closed up in this bleach cloud all day you probably won't be doing much thinking ever again."

It was slightly true. The next three days passed equally unproductively. Clara started dreading calling the Doctor, because each time he asked her if she'd gotten any thinking done she had to tell him that she hadn't. And she felt it was wedging something between them. On day six he pointed out that this was the longest they'd been apart in years. Clara snapped at him because that admission made her feel even guiltier and more panicky than she already did.

"Better get used to going weeks without sex if you want kids, Doctor." She'd replied. "Our once-to-twice-a-day thing won't be compatible with the parenting lifestyle." He hadn't liked that too much.

"You think the only reason I miss you is because we haven't had sex in six days?" He demanded incredulously. Truthfully, no, she didn't think that. But she'd known it would piss him off to say it.

"Well I know you don't miss my souffles." She replied, her voice deadpanned.

He huffed. "Of course I miss your damn souffles. And I hate that all my shirts are where they're supposed to be. And I hate that when I wake up there's no sweltering body lying halfway on top of mine, clinging with a death-grip to my skin in her sleep. All the things that used to sometimes aggravate me are the things I miss the most and if that doesn't prove how much I love you, I don't know what does. And yes, actually, I miss having sex with you a lot. But I miss just being with you more."

She'd wanted to make him angry, but when he actually was, she was quick to try and take it all back.

"I'm sorry." She said immediately. "I don't know why I'm trying to piss you off."

"Because you're still angry with me. And that's okay. I'm angry with me too, and with you, and with this entire situation." He replied curtly.

Well, it was honest at least. She felt worse after that phone call than she had since the first day she'd shown up at Charlotte's. She took to Charlotte's office that afternoon and stared at the blank spot beside the drawing of a pregnant lady, where some sort of score of emotional discomfort should have been. But she couldn't put a number to it no matter how hard she tried.

She was walking back to the spare bedroom when the doorbell rang. Her heart rose, immediately wishing and longing for it to be the Doctor, even if she'd told him to give her space. She didn't understand herself at all. She hurried to the door and peered through the peephole, seeing that it wasn't the Doctor after all. The visitor was much more unexpected than that.

She opened the door hesitantly, caught between a desire to throw herself into his arms and slam the door.

"Dad? What are you doing here?" She asked, first and foremost, because just three days ago she'd talked to him and he'd been in Blackpool. They'd had a short conversation that consisted of Clara pretending everything was okay and Dave rambling on about some new idea for an article about sand pollution on the beaches.

He eyed her with the all-seeing look only a parent could wield. Clara shifted guiltily.

"I came to surprise you. I finished my article early. Only you weren't at your flat." He began.

Clara felt her shoulders lower and her posture curve in. She fiddled nervously with her hands, willing herself not to break down in front of her father.

"The Doctor and I are fighting." She finally admitted. "Sort of. Or taking a break. Or something. I don't really know."

Saying it outloud like that made it all hurt that much more. She stared at her father until he grew blurry, and then he reached forward and pulled her into his arms. It was when she breathed in the familiar smell of home that she gripped him back and began sniffling into his old leather jacket.

"What in the world is going on?" He asked her gently. "I've never heard of you staying angry with that boy for more than a day at most. Not even when you were little. What'd he do?"

That made Clara actually cry, because he hadn't done anything. Nothing at all to warrant the coldness he was getting.

"Come on, let's go in." Dave soothed. "I'm sure Charlotte won't care that I'm here."

She wouldn't, but that wasn't the problem. Clara wasn't sure if she wanted him to come inside because then she'd have to tell him what was going on. And she was worried that even her father couldn't fix it, and that was a terrifying thought. She'd stopped letting him even try to fix things a long time ago, because she was too afraid to realize that he wasn't as all-powerful as he had seemed to her when she was a little girl. His failure to save Clara's mother had been the beginning of the deconstruction of her faith in him, and in God, and in herself. She'd been freezing him out just enough to protect her heart since then.

But he was her father, so perhaps he knew all this and was determined to mend it. He kept his arm around her shoulders and drew her back into the doorway, weaving through Charlotte's maze of "sentimental collections" to find the couch.

"Blimey, she's quite..." he hesitated. "Detailed."

Clara sank down onto the cushions, curling easily into her father's embrace once he was sitting down beside her. He somehow always smelled of Christmas to her, even during the summers, and there were few fonder memories in her mind than of Christmases with her parents. She wished for nothing more in that moment than to be a child again.

"What's all this about?" He finally questioned gently.

Clara took a few shuddering breaths. "The Doctor wants to have a baby."

Dave made a noncommittal sound at that. "Ah. I see." He paused for a moment. "Did you not see that coming?"

Clara lifted her face from his jacket and peered up at him in disbelief. "No! Did you?"

He nodded. "Of course I did. He's always been caring like that. Honestly I expected him to bring it up way before you two were already twenty-five."

Clara impatiently pushed tears off her cheeks. "But he _always_ said he didn't want kids! We've been saying that since we were sixteen, Dad! And we had all these plans about the things we'd do together, the hobbies we'd take up, the places we'd travel, and suddenly it's like that entire plan's been chucked out because now suddenly he wants to be Mummy and Daddy!" She let out a frustrated groan and buried her face back into her father's jacket.

When he began chuckling, Clara was at first angry. She was tormented and potentially on a break from her marriage. How could he find any of this funny? But finally her confusion and curiosity won out and she lifted her head, staring at his humored expression.

"What?" She demanded.

He had a soft and sad look in his eyes that he always wore now whenever he mentioned her mother. Clara steeled herself for it automatically. He talked of her more and more these days, which she supposed was good compared to the few years he couldn't stand to mention her at all, but it still sometimes made her ache.

"It's just funny. Because one of the last things your mother said to me before she died was: 'Just you watch. Before long our house will be filled with the sound of little feet again, because our daughter's going to be with that boy forever'. I think that belief was the last thing to give her hope. She held onto it until the very end."

Clara had never heard that story before. She sat up straighter, her eyes searing and her heart sinking, and shook her head.

"She never said anything like that to me." She said defensively.

Dave looked at her in disbelief. "Of course she didn't! The Doctor had just left to go to boarding school and you were so cross with him! She knew saying anything like that would only pull you further away from him because you're so stubborn. But she knew he'd come back and she knew he would be there for you, and really, that was what pulled her through."

Clara looked away from her father. "Well, she was wrong, because I'd be a terrible mother. That's why I can't have a baby."

He rolled his eyes. Clara glowered. He was not taking his daughter's misery very seriously.

"Are you kidding me?" He demanded.

"No, actually, I'm not." She shot back crossly.

He looked at her with humored disbelief. "Clara, you are without a doubt your mother's child. You're just as maternal as she was, if not more in some cases. Your mum always said you would be a great mother. Some things you just know."

Clara tried not to let those words lighten her heart. She tried not to feel like this was somehow her mother's way of helping her. But she felt the light weight of her mother's arm around her shoulders in that moment, like she was reassuring her too.

"What if I'm not? What if I'm awful and I screw up a little baby's life?" She asked. He didn't laugh this time, probably because he could see how terrified that idea made her.

He shook his head and hugged her close to his side for a moment. "It wouldn't ever happen. I would willingly bet my life on it."

She glared at him. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that."

He shrugged. "What? I would. There's no way you'd be awful at it. You learned how to be a parent from the greatest examples, after all."

Her parents had hardly ever been wrong about anything before, so she wasn't sure why they'd be wrong about this. She was reassured enough to dig down to the deepest problem.

"I don't want to do it without her." She whispered, maybe because it was such a painful admission that she couldn't even get herself to say it out loud.

Her dad frowned deeply at that. "I know, love."

She continued. "I'm scared to do it alone. I'm scared to not have her there to tell me what it's really like or to reassure me. Before she died, I used to imagine that she'd be beside me. I can't picture it happening without her there."

He drew her closer to his side, sensing that there wasn't much he could do about that problem but comfort her. If he had the ability to bring Ellie back, they both knew he would have done so a long time ago.

"I don't want to do a lot of things without her." He admitted. Her father had never said anything like that to her before. She found herself staring up at him with rapid attention, getting a glimpse of her father's true suffering for the first time. "For a while I didn't even want to wake up without her. Just the idea was terrifying. How are you supposed to learn how to go through your day without someone who's been a part of it for almost twenty years? But one day I woke up, and you were standing by my bed with a mug of tea, and I remembered that I wasn't doing anything alone, because I had you. And you were the bravest of all. You were what gave me hope." Clara blinked away a return of her tears, because this wasn't about her pain. It was about her dad's. "So I understand a little of what you mean. I get how scary and hard it is to do things that you'd always thought she'd be there to see. But you also have to remember that you can't miss out on life just because your mum isn't here. She wouldn't have wanted that. She wouldn't have wanted that at all. And you won't be doing it alone. You've got me, always and forever, and you've got that mad husband of yours who is at your flat in a pair of unwashed joggers pacing the floor with worry over you, and you've got a friend who lets you have your mental breakdown in her home without rushing it. And most of all, you've got yourself. You've got all you need, sweetheart. Even if it doesn't seem like it sometimes."

Mostly, overwhelmingly so, she knew that he was right about one thing. Her mum wouldn't have wanted her to cause herself so much misery. She wouldn't have wanted her to spend six days running from the root of her problem, the root of her problem being that she felt she couldn't do it without the woman who was never coming back. She knew now that her father was right, that she couldn't lie to herself and say she was afraid to have children because she'd be rubbish at it, because she knew she had no reason to think that. She'd always been great with children. With the cause of her discomfort located, Clara felt it would be a lot easier to soothe the pain long enough to figure out exactly what it was that she wanted. And for the first time, she felt that whatever it was she decided on, it'd be okay. They'd be happy regardless.

Her father let out a surprised grunt when Clara latched onto him in a tight hug, the exuberant kind he hadn't received since her mother died. But she'd given him the chance to help her again and he hadn't let her down. That was enough to impart more hope than Clara ever thought.

"I love you so much." She told him truthfully.

He kissed the top of her head and Clara could hear his elated smile at those words. "I love you even more, little one."

It'd been a while since she was his little one, but for once things felt clear and simple again, like they had when she was a child. He stayed for lunch and helped her pack up her sparse belongings, but then he was shooing her out of Charlotte's door.

"I'm going home and you should go back home too." He told Clara. "You've left him in quite the state."

Clara hugged her father tightly and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Dad."

She decided to walk home, feeling for once that she could and actually wanted to think. She imagined what her life would be like with each decision, and found that each ended up great in the end. Because she had the Doctor and he had her.

She grew impatient the last block and jogged, even though she wouldn't have ever admitted that to the Doctor. She had just stuck her key into the lock when the door opened, revealing a startled and overjoyed Doctor, and she let her bag fall right to the floor in the open doorway as she flung her arms around his neck. He stumbled back a bit, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist by instinct, and she was caught between laughter and tears as she kissed him.

"Does this mean you're done thinking?" He asked between kisses. Clara pulled back long enough to kick her bag through the door and shut it behind her, baring them off from the outside world. It was just the way she preferred it. She stared up at his eyes, relieved to find that the green helped ease her heart instead of making it ache. All was right in the world.

"No. I've just decided that I want us to think about it together." She admitted.

His smile was so soft and relieved that Clara could do nothing but press her mouth back to his. He kissed her back with abandon, understanding all the explanations hidden beneath that one sentence, and soon she had him backed up against the wall and his shirt on the floor.

"Are you still angry with me?" He wanted to know. Clara was out of breath and her heart was so full it was rising dangerously, and truthfully, anger was the very last thing on her mind.

"No. Are you still angry with me?" She asked.

He smiled. "No. But we can still have angry make-up sex."

She grinned deviously and hooked her fingers underneath the waistband of his bottoms, that he'd definitely been wearing for days. "You read my mind."

"I've been trying." He admitted, but that was the last reference to their time apart for a while.

It was later, when they were weaving their way back through the flat searching for their scattered items of clothing, that Clara said what she'd needed to the entire time.

"I'm sorry for shutting you out." She told him. She felt vulnerable, with wet hair and a towel around her like she had when this entire ordeal had begun, but he deserved those words.

He was bent over the back of the couch, searching for his lost shirt. He sat up straight immediately and turned to look at her. He searched her eyes seriously.

"You won't do it again?" He asked.

She crossed the short space between them, thankful that those few feet didn't feel like a chasm. She sat down beside him and leaned forward, pressing her face against his neck. She kissed him and exhaled, finally releasing all of her fear and defensiveness.

"No. I won't ever again." She swore.

There was plenty of time to tell him all her dad had said, and to explain all the things she'd been so scared of, just as there was time for them to discuss the proposition in full together. And she found she was actually looking forward to it this time. They'd do what was right for them, because they always did. And she'd regained her faith in herself, and truthfully, that was what had been missing for a very long time.

She shimmied behind the sofa and handed him his shirt. They wandered around apartment searching for the rest of her clothes, and then Clara leaned back against the wall with a snort.

"What?" The Doctor asked, his eyes crinkled with humor.

She shook her head. "I'm missing my white bra again."

They looked at each other for a moment, their lips twitching, and then they were leaning against each other and laughing so hard that, after a while, neither could really remember what had been so funny in the first place. They were unsure, but they were unsure together, and she preferred it that way.


	16. From the Start

_Periwinkle paint, the meaning of friendship, and love in all sizes_

* * *

By the ninth month, Clara was certain her baby was never coming out.

She'd been dreading the birth the entire duration of her pregnancy, not because she didn't want to finally meet and hold her daughter, but because she was terrified of all the uncertainties. Earlier in the pregnancy her fear had been centered around the pain, but soon (so gradually that Clara wasn't even sure when it happened) her fears began circling around worries for the baby's safety. All of this made her even more uneasy about the entire ordeal, but by the time she reached thirty-six weeks, she was so fed up with being pregnant that almost all of her fear had vacated.

After what felt like her millionth uneventful check up, and the hundredth time that Martha assured her that it was normal for first pregnancies to go to or past full term, Clara decided she needed to take matters into her own hands. There'd been what she called the "golden months" of her pregnancy, around halfway through the second trimester and the beginning of the third, where she felt great and loved everything about it. She'd feel her heart swell with joy anytime the baby moved or kicked and she'd laugh until she almost peed at the Doctor's ridiculous antics (like his firm assertion that singing and dancing for the baby in utero would lessen the trauma of birth). They gave the baby ridiculous nicknames for lack of knowing what real name to give her, the Doctor taking mainly to calling her Lolly because he insisted he already knew that she was going to be the sweetest little girl there was. Clara just called her Baby, sometimes Darling when she was appealing to her to please stop whamming her little heels into her mother's internal organs, and all was fine. All was good. But that was back when there was some sort of light at the end of the pregnancy tunnel. Now she was practically close to screaming daily because of the extreme level of discomfort. Nothing she did could alleviate the pain in her back or the suffocating pressure on her lungs or the constant jabbing in her ribs, because simply put, the baby was out of room. Clara was a short woman with a gangly husband, and unfortunately, the baby was most likely taking after him height-wise, judging by her length. The Doctor poured uneasily over his brother's obstetrician books, even though he remembered most everything from schooling, and reassured Clara that she'd feel much better when the baby finally turned head-first into the birthing position. But the baby had long turned and dropped down further into her pelvis, her little head wedged down above the birth canal like she was about to leave. Only she wasn't and Clara was certain she planned to stay inside of her forever, and while the shift alleviated the pressure on her ribs and lungs, she now had to piss every hour.

And so, the day after her weekly appointment had shown no dilation of her cervix _still_, even though she was officially at forty-two weeks, she grew impatient. The Doctor found her that morning, sitting crossly on the couch with an entire bowl of sliced pineapple on her lap. Seeing as though it was only six in the morning, he scratched the back of his head in confusion and peered at her blearily.

"I thought you were done with strange cravings?" He asked sleepily. No doubt the empty space on her side of the bed had woken him. He crossed the rug tiredly and sank down onto the couch beside her, leaning his head against her shoulder. Clara was pretty intent on eating all the pineapple, so she didn't respond.

After a few moments, the Doctor lifted his head and looked at her inquisitively. "Are you sleepwalking?"

Clara met his eyes and shook her head. "No. Pineapple's got an enzyme."

He nodded slowly. "O…kay. Yes, pineapple probably does. But why are you eating it at six in the morning?"

She lifted the container off her obscenely swollen stomach and stared pointedly at it.

"She has overstayed her welcome in my uterus." Clara declared. "Pineapple has a cervix softening enzyme. According to the results when I google searched: 'help, what are safe ways to get this huge, stubborn baby out of me'."

The Doctor caressed the side of her belly, tsking his tongue.

"Mummy doesn't mean that, Lolly. She just wants to see you." He cooed. Clara smacked his hand off her stomach.

"No, Mummy _does _mean that. Not because I don't love her, but because I'm sick of waking up every hour to go to the loo, and also I'm fairly certain I can feel her head beginning to come out when I stand up. Martha says it's all in my head but I can _feel it. _The pressure's horrifying. I feel like all my organs are about to plummet out of me."

He frowned. "She said you're not dilated, so there's no way Lolly's going to slide out. Although I'm sure that'd be a nice alternative to pushing her out."

Clara grumbled and said nothing in response, turning back to the whole, sliced up pineapple in her lap. The roof of her mouth and her tongue were already aching from the acid of the fruit, but she kept eating anyway. When she finally ran out, she turned to the Doctor and poked his shoulder.

"You know what _else _stimulates labor?" She said slyly.

He looked at her suspiciously. "I'm not having sex with you if you feel like the baby's sliding out. There is no way that would be comfortable for anyone in this room."

She held her pointer finger and thumb a few millimeters apart. "Just a little sex. Little bit. Sperm softens the cervix, too."

He looked at her in slightly-humored disbelief. "A 'little sex'?! What the hell is a little sex?"

She waved her hand casually. "You know. Just a little penetration, enough that we can get some sperm—"

"Clara. You're sounding a bit mad." He told her gently.

She glared. "Well, if you really loved me you'd give me some of your sperm, seeing as though I'm already overdue." She huffed.

He gently cradled her face in his hands and pulled her in for a kiss. She kept on glaring once he pulled back, because that was not a sex-initiation kiss.

"I've already given you some of my sperm. That's why you're in this position." He reminded her.

Her glare turned into a full-out glower. "Don't remind me," she ground out darkly. She lifted her legs to place her feet up on the coffee table with some difficulty. She shifted her weight to try and lessen the pressure on her spine. She turned back to the Doctor. "I would give you some of _my _sperm. If I had any."

He shook his head incredulously, his lips pulled up into a small smile that Clara wanted very much to smack off his face at the current moment in time. He'd be a bit mad too if there was a huge baby inside of him that _didn't fit anymore_. He leaned over her body, pressing her back into the couch, and kissed her one more time. But it was still a bit too "affectionate husband" for her tastes.

He met her eyes when he pulled back, his mouth still smiling like all of this was wholly pleasant and wonderful. "If your pineapple magic doesn't do the trick by the time my football match's over, I promise you can have all the sperm you want."

She relaxed back into the couch. "Thank you. Even though you should have offered to begin with, seeing as though both your baby and I are supremely uncomfortable. Think about poor Baby. She's crammed in there like…like…I don't know. Something large in a small space. Pregnancy's sucking my creativity."

He rolled his eyes. "I hate to be the pessimistic one, dearest, but we had sex last Monday. And we've been having unprotected sex this entire pregnancy. If I had magic labor-inducing sperm, we'd have our baby in our arms by now."

Clara tapped her temple. "No, I've got to _want _it to happen. That's the difference. Those other times I wasn't willing my cervix to open." She paused. "And don't call me dearest."

He hugged her tightly to his side, his hands finding her stomach once more. "Martha said another week. Just one more, and then they'll medically induce you if that's what you want to do."

She grimaced. "I don't _want _to be medically induced. I want to be naturally induced, so win your game quick and come back home. I'll be here eating pineapples by the dozen."

He shook his head. "You're impossible."

She poked him hard in the shoulder. "Yeah, but I'm yours, so get used to it."

He leaned back and met her eyes, his filled with joy. "That's right. _My_ impossible girl."

She set her hand over his, still perched over the baby. "Your impossible girls." She corrected. "This child is so _stubborn_."

"Just like her mother," he hissed underneath his breath.

Clara lifted her eyebrows challengingly. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Clara's downtrodden mood must have gotten to the Doctor more than he was admitting, because he spent the majority of the morning hovering nervously over his wife, fetching anything she needed or wanted and massaging her back. He made her breakfast, and then lunch, and then he called Craig and postponed their match for the sake of driving to the market and buying Clara pineapple juice. Clara sensed that he thought the pineapple thing was pointless, but she loved that he supported her efforts anyway. Mostly she just loved that he was willing to go to the market to get various pineapple paraphernalia just for the sake of making her feel a little bit better, a little more hopeful.

She tried to "relax" while he was at his football match, but that had been the hardest part about being pregnant. She couldn't quite admit to herself that she couldn't do all the things she used to do and usually ended up with a pulled back muscle because of it. She wandered into the small nursery they'd set up for the baby months ago, sitting down in the rocking armchair and peering around at all the things they'd excitedly handpicked. The theme was gentle, with the walls a light yellow and the furniture various shades of pastel colors. Clara was shaking the crib and testing its sturdiness for the second time that day, and probably the thousandth time since they'd bought it, when she spotted the forgotten parenting magazine she'd left sitting on top of the changing table. She'd tried to get into them, but they usually just made her anxious or pissed her off. No advice or tips they had to offer seemed very helpful, anyway. But Clara picked it up and walked (or, if she was being a bit more honest with herself, waddled) towards the chair, carefully lowering herself back down into it. She read a disturbing article about "sex and the new dad", which did a good job of making every man out to be a sex-driven machine intent on shutting newborns up just so they could get right back to the baby making part of marriage, and then she tried to read "25 Fool-Proof Ways to Get Back into Your Pre-Baby Jeans!", but that just made her roll her eyes so hard she feared she'd get a headache. Worse yet, she got sucked into reading "Tips to Having More Baby-Free Thoughts"—because obviously mothers should be thinking more about their waistband sizes and their husbands' blue balls than their screaming infants. Christ.

She was about to toss it into the bin when she spotted a chart on nursery colors. She figured that had to be less vapid, and despite the blatant gendering, she found it had some very helpful hints. Including the fact that yellow apparently caused anxiety and fretting in babies, something she'd been unaware of when she'd painted the nursery yellow.

Really, she knew she shouldn't have done it, but once she read that she was unable to stop herself from doing _something_. She couldn't very well let Baby sleep in a room that would make her anxious. She pulled the bucket of periwinkle paint out from underneath the sink—they'd only used a bit to paint the bookshelf—and hauled it all the way to the baby's nursery. And then she spent the next thirty minutes shoving and pushing the baby's furniture into the middle of the room. Both she and the Doctor had insisted on real, solid wood furniture, worried that some put-together thing from Ikea would somehow collapse underneath their infant despite the unlikelihood of it, and so it took her a lot of huffing and puffing to move everything from the walls. She grabbed a paint tray and a roller and poured some of the peaceful shade into the tray, smiling happily at it before getting to work. This was a much better shade for her baby.

She was halfway finished with the room and perched precariously on a stepladder when she heard her phone ring with the Doctor's custom ringtone. She carefully climbed down and hurried from the room on her socked feet, accidentally losing control of her speed and almost sliding right into the edge of the kitchen table. She stopped herself with her hands and snatched her phone up, answering it breathlessly.

"Clara's Home for Freeloading Babies, this is Clara speaking. How may I help you?"

The Doctor's voice was humored. "Still pregnant, I see. The baby hasn't casually slid out?"

Clara narrowed her eyes at his tone. It was less "laughing with you" and more "laughing at you". "She's preparing herself."

"Ah." He said. She could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to withhold his laughter. "Are you missing me or do you mind if I stay for another match?"

Clara normally would make a show of declaring how desperately she needed him home, but she thought quickly to the nursery. If he came home now he'd have a fit and pout until she agreed to not "endanger" herself and the baby in that way. He was ridiculous.

"Did you win the last match?" She asked, knowing full and well they hadn't. They never did.

She could hear his frown. "No. But we almost had them!"

"Then you'd better do another match." She decided.

His voice was determined. "We'd better. Can't let my daughter have a loser for a father. I'll call right after the next match. Good luck with your pineapples!"

She glared at the wall as his tone turned from intent to almost condescending. "I will!" She lowered her voice before saying her next words. "Good luck not being an arse."

"What?" He asked.

"I said I love you and be safe!"

She could hear his smile. "Oh! I love you too. So, so much. I'll see you soon!"

She glared at the phone after hanging up. Sure, this entire situation was funny to him, but he didn't have a baby's head bearing down on his pelvis. He'd be eating pineapples for every meal too if he did.

She finished the room up quickly, motivated by her annoyance with her husband. By the time she finished, she was covered in paint and officially over her irritation. She was back to missing him. She decided to call him right after she put the furniture back in place and spent the next half hour pushing at it, but for whatever reason, getting it back into place was harder than moving it out had been. She was pushing futilely at the crib when she felt a strange popping sensation, like she'd popped a joint or (more terrifyingly) something in her spine. She immediately stopped shoving at the crib and reached behind her, kneading at her lower back. She moved her hips to the right and then to the left, relieved when she didn't feel any licks of pain.

"Okay, okay," she muttered crossly to her body. "I get it. I'll stop."

She was walking from the room when she realized that her body felt lighter somehow, like there was less pressure inside of her, and then she registered warm, sudden wetness down below. She reached down between her legs and let out a frustrated groan.

"Oh for Christ's sake! This is a joke. This has got to be a joke. It's like I'm a sodding two-year-old, pissing all over the place!" She complained. She changed directions, heading towards the bedroom so she could change her clothes, but then she realized that the wetness was _still _coming. The leak was determined, soaking her underwear in no time at all, and Clara was immediately infuriated at her own body before anything else.

"Oi!" She yelped, reaching down to grab her crotch. "I said _stop peeing_! Stop!"

It only took a few more failed attempts to control the flow for her to realize that it was not, in fact, urine at all. She lowered her wet hands and furrowed her eyebrows, sudden understanding making her heart freeze.

"Oh." She said. She paused. "Well that was anticlimactic. Isn't there supposed to be a dramatic burst like a water balloon?"

But of course no one answered, because the only other person there was her unborn child. She stood there frowning, watching the boxers she'd nicked from her husband grow soaked and heavy as the liquid poured down her legs. This wasn't the order this was supposed to happen in. All those birthing books she'd bought were a waste of money.

She waited impatiently for the fluid to stop coming, realizing it was pointless to change into dry clothes until she was done leaking. When she felt confident that all of the amniotic fluid was now on her hallway carpet, she pulled the boxers and her underwear off and made her way back into the kitchen for her phone. She was already washing her lower half off in the shower when the Doctor finally picked up.

"Clara! It's three to zero! AND WE HAVE THE THREE!" He said ecstatically. She heard Craig yell something in the distance. "Oh—that's me! I'm on! Bye, I love you!"

"No, Doctor—"

She was left listening to the dial tone. She groaned angrily and briefly fantasized about throwing her phone down into the shower, but punishing the phone was pointless.

Martha answered on the second ring, thankfully reliable on this one day where Clara needed it most.

"Hello Clara!" She greeted cheerfully.

"Hi." Clara said. She was about to move her lower half out of the shower spray, but a sudden pain building low between her legs made her stop moving. She was sure her eyes had widened almost comically.

"How are you feeling?" Martha asked. "Is the baby's head still causing uncomfortable pressure?"

Clara felt the strange, cramping pain begin spreading upwards. She gripped her stomach by instinct as her uterus began actually tightening up beneath her hands.

"Yeah, about that." She said. Her voice was drawn tight. "I'm actually washing amniotic fluid off myself."

"Oh! Now? Really? Did you lose the mucus plug? Are you having contractions?" Martha asked, her voice shifting seamlessly from friend to doctor.

Clara stepped fully into the shower, hoping the heat from the water would ease the pain slightly. She kept her head to the left, so the phone was just slightly out of the spray.

"Yes to the contractions. No to the plug because there was no plug. I feel lied to. My water broke without warning." She shared. She ground her teeth and let out an audible gasp a second later, because she felt a stinging pain inside of herself, like something sharp was hollowing her out. "And I believe my cervix might finally be opening."

She could hear Martha's confusion. "What does it feel like? Like something stretching you out from the inside?"

Clara thought Martha had quite the knack for wording labor pains. "Yes! Precisely like that actually."

Clara wished she could have leaned over and peered down between her legs, because she was feeling all sorts of strange pains down there, but her huge stomach definitely prohibited that.

"Wow. Your baby takes her time until she's ready, and then she's all business." Martha noted. Clara noticed that she actually sounded _surprised _which made her wonder if perhaps she should have been concerned. "You're just in early labor, but I'd feel better if you'd go ahead and come down to King's. Normally early labor lasts a while for first pregnancies but I'm going to stop trying to predict your baby's decisions."

She had no idea how she was managing to keep her voice so calm, because as Martha said those words, she felt her heart rate picking up. She could hear her pulse in her ears, which was quite the feat seeing as though she was standing in the shower.

"I can't." She said, although she realized it sounded more like a whine. "The Doctor isn't here."

Martha muttered something darkly that sounded like _those bloody Smith boys_. "Then I'll come get you and you'll just have to tell him to meet you there. I really think you need to come in."

Clara turned the shower off and stepped carefully onto the floor, taking a few experimental steps to see what hurt and what didn't. If what she'd felt earlier was a contraction, it was long gone. Now she was left with the strange, stinging pains deep inside her that weren't particularly enjoyable.

"It's not so bad right now." She shared with Martha. "I'm going to go to the field and get him. He's at a football match."

She didn't have to see Martha to see her eyebrows rise. "I'm going to have to advise you against that. It could get very bad very quickly."

Clara huffed. "Yeah, but my husband's not here. So I'm not going."

She didn't want to say what she was really thinking. And that was that she was too afraid to go without him.

"Clara, I'm not asking you to give birth to your daughter without him. He's just at a game, so he'll be done soon. Let's go to hospital and you can get some friends or your dad to come down, and the Doctor will be there before you know it."

Clara felt the panic squeezing her heart lessen a bit as she remembered something. "My dad came down last night so he'd be here whenever the baby did come. I can call him."

Martha's voice was soothing. "Yes, call your dad. I'll be there in a couple minutes. Grab your bag and keep track of your contractions."

Clara still felt uneasy, but she nodded anyway. "All right. Can I make a cup of tea?"

"Decaf. Remember to deep breathe."

"Gotcha." Clara said, but that only made her think of her husband, and that made her long for him more intently.

She pulled on a huge T-shirt and an old pair of the Doctor's jogging bottoms, knowing he'd rather her be comfortable than keep them stowed away in the back of a bottom drawer. Martha arrived just after her tea finished seeping. She'd had two contractions in the time spanning between the phone call and her arrival, both of which she'd timed like Martha had asked.

"Fifty seconds long." She informed Martha immediately. It was perhaps her eyes that betrayed her fear, because when Martha met her eyes, her own softened. Clara continued briskly. "I'm taking my tea without sugar. That always makes me more focused."

Martha whistled lowly. She was already in her white coat, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

"Then your cervix is definitely dilating. Grab your mug and let's go."

Clara felt childishly that she could have very easily clung to the doorframe and refused to leave. She was trying to be brave like everyone said she was, but when another wave of cramping, all-consuming pain overtook her in Martha's car, she gripped the door handle and fought back the words she wanted to cry out. _I want my husband. _

It didn't take long to get settled into a room. She couldn't be admitted to one of the labor rooms in Nightingale until she was in active labor, but after her internal examination, she was gutted to hear that she was _already_ in active labor. After all that time desperately wishing a checkup would show some cervical dilation to no avail, she was almost so shocked it felt like a slap in the face to be told she was already six centimeters. She felt very much like grabbing Martha by the face and demanding answers as to why nothing was going the way it said it would in the books.

"That's impossible." Clara found herself saying stubbornly. She lifted herself up on her elbows and struggled to catch Martha's eye from where she was sitting between her legs. "Right?"

Martha looked up and met Clara's eyes sympathetically. She patted her knee and shrugged her shoulders.

"It's improbable, but not impossible. Every single labor and birth is different and stress can shorten the duration early-labor." She shared. "You never know until you're actually doing it."

Well, Clara thought there had to have been some grain of truth behind the Doctor's nickname for her. Nothing could ever go the probable way with them.

By the time Charlotte and her father showed up, Clara was in one of the labor rooms and she had witnessed her own strength and resolve weather away little by little. Her contractions were a minute long now and coming around every five minutes, but her cervix had only budged another centimeter. She couldn't decide whether she wanted this to be over with to save herself the agonizing pain or to cross her legs tightly until the Doctor was there. Her fear and love were at war for the thousandth time.

Her dad kissed her forehead and presented her with a cup of decaf tea he'd picked up from a Starbucks. The gesture was touching, because it proved just how well he knew his daughter, but Clara was nauseated and even the smell made her want to curl up into herself and die. Charlotte promptly sat on the edge of her bed, her eyes wide and curious.

"What's it like?" She asked.

Clara had to scrounge deep inside of herself for every little wisp of strength left to smile halfheartedly. Most of her strength was being used up by her mission to not begin sobbing. "Not so bad." She lied.

Charlotte peered at her doubtfully, probably sensing the tight, crippled tone to Clara's voice that she'd tried so hard to mask. Her dad began talking about something, but then her uterus was hardening underneath her tight grip on her stomach and she was biting her tongue to keep from biting out the worst curses she knew. She forced herself to nod along like she was listening, not wanting to admit to anyone how much pain she was in for reasons unknown to her. Maybe because she was afraid they'd try to comfort her and she didn't want anyone to touch her, except the Doctor, but he wasn't here. And that was the biggest problem of all.

When another hour passed, she felt herself growing legitimately worried about the Doctor. Her mind was filled with chaotic tangles of fears: the Doctor, lying mangled in some tube accident or bombing, her baby getting suffocated by the umbilical cord, her own body splitting to the point of severe blood loss that left the Doctor a widow. She couldn't even express any of those fears, because she felt like she was constantly in crippling pain. The kind that kept her fully focused on it and nothing else, leaving no ability to voice fears. Even when the contractions crested and broke off, she was left lying tense and fatigued, on edge waiting for the start of the next. It felt never-ending. Finally, when she felt almost like the pain was spreading down to her toes and swallowing her up whole, she reached out and grabbed her father's hand.

"I need the Doctor," she whimpered, her voice choked and quivering. She'd had little interest in talking, even if Charlotte had tried her hardest to take her mind off the pain with small talk, and so it was one of the first things she'd said in the past hour. Her father looked at her seriously, taking in every word, searching for a hint on how to somehow ease his daughter's suffering.

Her dad further expressed how well he knew her when he clenched his fists angrily and made a decision.

"I know, love. And I'm going to go get him for you." He declared. Clara could see how angry he was with his son-in-law, and she was about to point out that it really wasn't the Doctor's fault at all, but another wave of pain broke off her words. Soon she was feeling herself growing angry with him too. He knew how scared she was of giving birth. He knew how much she was afraid of having to do it alone. And regardless of whose fault it was, he was not here with her.

She'd thought it was what she wanted, but when her father left the room, she suddenly lost all control over her emotions. She stared at the door as it shut behind him, her breaths coming shallowly and quickly. She turned to her left, where Charlotte was still sitting on her bed, and reached for her friend's hand. She grasped it tightly to the point of pain.

"Please don't go." She heard herself beg. Her own voice was terrified and torn, but she didn't care anymore. She was so afraid and she didn't want to be alone. "Please don't leave me alone too."

Charlotte's eyes were wide. She clutched Clara's hand tighter and leaned forward, pressing an uncharacteristic kiss to Clara's head. She'd never seen Charlotte really comfort anyone before. It somehow soothed and panicked her all at once.

"I won't go anywhere. I swear." Charlotte told her firmly.

Clara reached up and pressed the heels of her palms over her stinging eyes.

"It hurts so much." She admitted, taking a shaking breath. "I'm so scared."

Charlotte wrapped a cautious arm around her shoulders. "It's okay to be scared. But it's all going to be okay. It'll be over soon and then you'll have Baby and you'll be so happy."

Clara lowered her hands and peered blurrily at her friend. "How do you know that?"

Charlotte smiled easily. "Because you're Clara. The universe conspires to make it all okay."

Clara wasn't really sure what that meant, but soon she didn't care, because she was overcome once more with aching, twisting pain, as if someone was wringing her internal organs out like wet clothing. She heard Charlotte urging her to squeeze her hand, and even if she felt skeptical that that could help at all, she obliged and gripped Charlotte's fingers. She gasped until she heard Charlotte mimicking the deep breathing that she was supposed to be doing, and soon she was focusing on Charlotte's inhalations and exhalations and matching them to the best of her ability. It didn't help much, but the hand-squeezing and breathing made her feel a bit more in control. It gave her something to counter back at the splitting pain. She was glad for once that the Doctor had missed so many birthing classes, leaving Charlotte her stand-in partner. She knew what to do when Clara was in too much pain to remember.

"Maybe you should just get the epidural," Charlotte suggested gently. Clara relaxed back onto the pillows when the pain began drifting away. She closed her eyes and turned onto her side, bringing her knees as far up as they would go. She missed feeling the baby move and she missed how whenever she'd lie in this very position the baby would shift too, as if mimicking Clara. Her daughter hadn't moved much at all in the past two weeks because she didn't _have _any room to move. And now she was probably trying to figure out what the hell her mother's body was doing to her. Without the nudges or kicks, it made it harder to remember that it was her daughter causing this pain, and it was only that knowledge that made it seem worth it. But her daughter was worth it, that much she knew. She had to be. If she was anything like her father, she'd be more than worth it.

"I don't want to." Clara finally said. She was glad that she could at least hold onto her stubbornness. "I've made it this far."

Charlotte sighed heavily. "I think you're being a bit ridiculous, but it's obviously your choice."

Clara didn't say much back to that, because there wasn't much to say. It would seem ridiculous to anyone who hadn't felt her baby, who hadn't realized that Baby already had distinct likes and dislikes and favored routines. Someone who hadn't taped the baby's sonogram picture to the fridge and felt giddy affection bloom each morning that she rose and saw it there. Clara had started her pregnancy fearing she'd be the worst mother possible, and sometime during it she'd made the decision to be brave enough to be the best. And she'd never been satisfied with anything but the best for her unborn baby, so she was intent on holding herself to that same standard, even if she felt now that it was likely to kill her. If she screwed up, it wasn't going to be because she didn't try. That much Clara knew for sure. Her own mother had always given her all of her. And she had been the best of all.

After two more contractions—which were steadily growing worse as well as longer—Charlotte nudged Clara gently with her elbow.

"Hey, want to see if we can hack into some of the computers on the hospital wifi?" She asked mischievously.

Normally Clara would be all for it. But she couldn't imagine focusing on a computer long enough to hack into anything. The crushing pain of her body and quivering fear of her mind were sapping so much away from her brain.

"I can't even remember how to bypass a firewall right now." She admitted, with some frustration. "Thank you though." She added.

Charlotte sighed and touched her hair lightly.

"I don't know how to help." She admitted. "I'm rubbish at this. All of this. I bet you wish you had someone else in here with you."

What Clara wished was that she had the strength to find the right words. "You're not rubbish. Being here with me is helping. Not leaving me alone here is more help than I can say. And I wouldn't have called if I didn't find some comfort in your presence."

Charlotte wasn't convinced, but Clara was intent on making it up to her friend somehow. She'd repay her for all the support she'd given her one day. To Charlotte it might not have seemed like much, but to Clara it was one of the most important things anyone had ever done for her. Her father had left to find the Doctor and probably would be unsuccessful on that quest, and she'd give birth here without both her dad and her husband, and it was a relief to know there was someone here to hold her hand. There was no way to measure the level of fear she felt when she imagined what it'd be like to do this alone.

Charlotte told her jokes between contractions and encouraged her to take sips of water periodically. She talked Clara into trying the birthing ball, but she didn't gain much relief from it. Clara got her mind off all her anxieties and pain for the first time since she arrived when Charlotte-in a last ditch attempt to be helpful-hooked her own computer up to the TV with a HDMI cable and began (very illegally) surfing through other patients' computers. They found a computer with an entire collection of hilarious cartoons they'd both watched growing up, and Clara felt a little better after that. Laughing through the contractions was strangely helpful and Charlotte had a way of mimicking the punchlines so they became doubly hilarious. But soon the pain was growing (Clara was certain it wasn't possible for it to keep getting worse, but oh, it did) and even the funniest cartoon antics couldn't take her mind of that. And then Charlotte was back to holding her hand. Clara realized the nurses thought Charlotte was her sister, and despite the physical differences, she realized it was a sensible deduction to make.

She was nine centimeters when she heard the loud clicking of the Doctor's football boots against the tiled floors. He was running judging by the uncoordinated rhythm of the clacks, and Clara sat straight up immediately, her hands still clutching tightly at her swollen stomach. She stared hard at the doorway, her heart filling with hope, and she was so relieved when he pushed his gangly self through the doorway that she immediately burst into tears. She'd tried so hard to be brave, but something about him ended that façade so quickly that there was no hope of fighting against it.

His blue football shirt was covered in mud—half of their team name, Kings Arms, was illegible—and he even had a few streaks on his face, like he'd done a full-body slide across the grass. He was ridiculously out of place with his knee-high blue socks and black shorts, but Clara was certain that he had never looked more beautiful to her in the twenty years she'd known him. He crashed clumsily into the side of her hospital bed, his hands cradling her face without prior words. He leaned down and kissed her, the kind of kiss that articulated very quickly just how apologetic he was, and Clara couldn't stop from lifting her arms up and wrapping them tightly around his neck. There was no lust to her kiss; it was pure relief. After they broke apart she pressed her face against his shoulder, drowning suddenly underneath her frustration and fear and pain.

"Fuck you for doubting my pineapples!" She sobbed into his muddy shirt.

He ran his fingers softly through her hair and sat on the side of the bed. He must have given Charlotte a pointed look over Clara's shoulder, because she felt Charlotte rise immediately, giving the Doctor room to gently push Clara over and lie beside her. She wasn't sure whether her desire to latch onto him or push him off was stronger.

"I'm so, so sorry. I will never doubt pineapples ever again." He said sincerely, his voice drawn with regret. He leaned back against the pillow, pulling her down with him. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder and took a few deep breaths around her tears, letting the familiar sound of his heartbeat calm her. She kept focusing on that and grasped his forearm tightly as another contraction settled over her. She felt his hands move to her stomach, most likely feeling for the hardening of her uterus. She heard him ask Charlotte for updates as she breathed carefully into his dirty shirt.

"Nine?!" He asked, panicked. "Already?! But I'm not ready! And I have dirt all over me! Can I still hold her if I'm dirty?" His eyes widened and he swallowed nervously. "Can't you just hold it off for like...one more day?!"

Clara felt anger swell within her just as her contraction peaked. She reached down and pinched his arm. Hard. He yelped and Clara leaned her head back, peering at him fiercely from underneath her wet eyelashes.

"You'd better be bloody ready, because I'm shoving this baby out of me no matter what!" She bit out. She pushed a finger into his chest, feeling her own hysteric words choking her. "This was _your idea_! You're the one who got this idea in my head, you massive arse! Do you have any _idea_ how much this hurts? I've already done it all without you; I don't need to hear you're having paternal doubts! Fuck you!"

The Doctor's eyes widened and Clara heard Charlotte stifle laughter to her left. Dave's hand seem to come out of nowhere. He grasped the back of the Doctor's neck tightly, his eyes chained on the Doctor in a fierce glare. The Doctor turned his head as much as he could, taking in Dave's furious expression, his eyes wide. He gulped.

"I feel the need to reiterate my intent behind those words." He choked out. "I didn't mean I'm not ready to have this baby. I just meant—it's sudden. Is all. Oh, Christ, I'm a terrible husband." He pressed his face into his hands, all shame and self-loathing, and it was only that that could have torn through Clara's sudden irritation. Clara gritted her teeth against a subsequent contraction and impatiently smoothed his dirty hair back from his forehead.

"You are not. You're just daft sometimes." She soothed.

He lowered his hands, revealing wet eyes. "You and this baby are all I care about. I never meant to sound like such a—"

"Fucker?" Dave suggested angrily. Clara still had enough of her wits intact to glance at her dad in surprise, having never heard him use language like that before.

"Yes! I'm a fucker!" The Doctor moaned pathetically.

Clara let out a pained groan, unable to understand why it felt like this contraction was truly never-ending. She reached up and swatted in the general direction of the Doctor's shoulder.

"Shut up and comfort me!" She snapped. "That's what your job is right now! You comfort while I prepare to squeeze—Jesus Christ, this is not—Martha!"

Charlotte tried to slip from the room to get Martha, but Clara was having none of that.

"Don't go!" She pleaded. She wasn't sure when she'd made the decision to keep Charlotte by her side during the birth, but it'd happened, and she wasn't sure she could take seeing anyone else walk through that doorway. Now that they were all there, she was intent on keeping it that way. She sat up and reached over the Doctor to page the nurse, but Martha walked through the door in that moment, probably having heard Clara's cry.

"You look awful." Martha noted.

Clara leaned forward and grasped her knees, her face twisted with agony.

"I need to push." She realized. The pressure and pain rooted in her body was unbearable. She met Martha's eyes desperately. "I need you to get her out. Now."

The Doctor rose from the bed when Martha put Clara's feet back in the stirrups, edging down towards the bottom of the bed, but Clara was quick to grab the collar of his shirt. She yanked him perhaps a little too forcefully and he fell back against the bed railing.

"You're not going _anywhere_." She said lowly, the threat clear in her voice. She huffed and grabbed at the railing with her free hand, trying to keep from doing what her body was clearly demanding she do.

"But I want to look!" He complained.

She tightened her fingers around the material of his shirt. "And I want this to stop hurting. We all don't get what we want, do we?"

"Right." Martha declared, her voice muffled. She sat straight up and peered over Clara's stomach. "You're ten. We're on."

Truthfully, whatever preparations Martha and the nurses made for the birth were lost to Clara. She was suddenly absorbed into a world of pain, where fighting against her body's desperate desire to expel the infant was almost as painful as the contractions themselves. She heard Charlotte arguing with the nurses about the support persons limit, and then she heard herself yell something about her mum and how scared she was, and the next thing she knew the Doctor was holding her right hand and Charlotte had her left and her dad was pushing her hair back from her face.

"You can push now!" Martha encouraged. Clara noted briefly that there were at least two nurses staring right at her privates, but it was close to the last thing on her mind except the pain. Her father and Charlotte were at eye-level, anyway, and not down below, so that was something to be thankful for. Clara gritted her teeth and pushed with as much force as she could muster, but the pressure on her pelvis only grew. She'd expected it to alleviate some. She let out a frustrated groan and let her head fall back against the pillow momentarily. Beyond the pain, she felt a whisper of comfort, and it took her a moment to realize that the Doctor was kneeling beside the bed and cradling her hand to his cheek. She moved her thumb back and forth tiredly, feeling the hard clumps of dried mud and the slight stubble on his cheek, and then she was lifting her head back up and finding his eyes. His were green and alight with excitement and worry and she was reminded, once more, of why she was enduring all of this right now. Because she loved him. Because she loved the baby inside of her. She could do it. She could do it for him.

"I love you," she told him breathlessly. She leaned forward and griped her knees tighter, so tightly her nails were digging into her skin. She was certain the agony would kill her. "And I hate you." She added, her voice pained.

He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze and then pressed his lips to the back of it. Clara could feel her dad patting her back and Charlotte's hand had long grown sweaty in hers, but she showed no sign of letting go.

"I love you more than anything." The Doctor responded. He seemed relieved to hear her say those three words after all her yelling. Clara wasn't sure if the pain was weakening her, but anger was the furthest thing from her mind when she looked to him. She only wanted his support and love and she didn't care how late he'd been or how unwise he'd been with his wording. She gripped his hand so tightly that her nails dug into the back of his hand and kept her eyes on his.

"Focus, Clara." Martha chided. "Just push. I know it hurts, but it'll all be over soon."

Clara thought it ridiculous that Martha assumed she could focus on anything but the agony, but she listened anyway. She took a deep breath and gave pushing another go. The pressure swelled quickly in her head, making her feel almost as if it would explode and requiring her to drop her eyes from the Doctor's, but still she kept going. The pain and pressure in her lower body built and built over what felt like an obscene amount of time, and soon all she knew was the pain and the Doctor's quiet words in her ear, offering her soft admissions of love and hope and strength, things Clara needed. Just as she was sure it was never going to end, she she felt a fierce, stinging, sharp pain mingle in with every other ache. Her pulse was so loud in her ears that she missed Martha's words the first time. It was the Doctor's echoing of them that she heard.

"She's crowning?!" He asked. His voice was excited and amazed. Clara heard Martha instructing her to stop pushing, and even though the thought of doing that was horrifying, she went limp. She gasped wildly, her head throbbing, and tried to keep from yelling out. The Doctor made a move to hurry down to glance at what was going on, but Clara tugged him back towards her with what felt like the last of her strength. Then she let go of his hand and Charlotte's and leaned forward as far as her stomach would physically allow her to. She closed her eyes and breathed against the pain as she reached down between her legs. A nurse started to complain, but Martha's hand was soft as she grabbed Clara's. She gently guided her hand to the crown of her baby's head. Clara touched it gently, feeling the firm shape of her skull and—more wondrously—the matted, downy hair.

"She's got hair!" Clara shared, breathless and shaking. She opened her eyes and heard herself laugh bewilderedly, her eyes prickling with tears that could have been from pain, exhaustion, or love. She was unsure. She pulled her hand back up and searched for the Doctor's eyes. He was smiling so hugely that it made Clara's heart swell enough for her to notice it through her veil of pain.

"Doctor! She's got hair!" She shared excitedly. He began bouncing up and down on his feet with excitement, looking almost like he was doing a little dance.

That most recent discovery gave Clara energy she hadn't had before. She suddenly remembered exactly what her reward for all of this pain was going to be, and it was grandiose. She pushed slowly and carefully like Martha instructed, stopping to let the contractions do the work whenever Martha told her to, and somehow during it she'd leaned forward again. She reached down once more, her hands searching, and she expected Martha to push her hands away, but she merely moved back slightly, continuing her mantra of encouragements. When Clara felt what had to have been the top of her baby's tiny ears, she gave another shuddering breath and then gently grasped her baby's head, giving her a light pull as she pushed one last time. And then, before she was sure what was happening, she was leaning forward so far she could feel her groin muscles burning and pulling painfully, her wailing newborn infant sliding out into her own hands.

She let out a shocked and shaky laugh of joy, her eyes swimming with tears. The infant was impossibly tiny (had all that chaos really been caused by something _that _small?) and slick with vernix and a little blood. Her skin had a bluish tint to it, something that at first caused Clara's heart to plummet painfully, but then she realized with a wave of reassurance that she could feel the fluttering of her tiny heart through her small back, and she wasn't sure what to do but stare at her in shock, as if she was unsure where the baby in her hands had fallen from. Martha seemed similarly surprised for a moment, but she was quick to get into motion. She set her hands underneath Clara's and took the baby, gently suctioning her airways and pressing two fingers over her tiny heart. Clara watched the Doctor—assisted needlessly by a nurse—cut the umbilical cord, his hands shaking and his state severely weepy. He met her eyes a moment later, his full of amazement and joy, and it was enough to make Clara laugh again. She realized she was still leaning between her own legs, her hands extended in the same position they'd be in when she'd caught her daughter, and it took a hand on each shoulder from her dad and Charlotte to coax her into lying back.

"Can I see her?" She asked Martha. Her voice was coarse from the screaming she'd done near the end of the delivery, and she didn't sound like herself. But she remembered with a rush of shock that she wasn't herself anymore. She wasn't just Clara. She was this baby's mother. She was sure it was what she was meant to be all along.

Martha seemed to realize that Clara didn't mind the gory mess on her baby and carried her over. Clara struggled to sit up against the pillows, briefly and tiredly registering the deep sting of pain between her legs. She suddenly cared little about anything except her baby. Martha carefully placed her on Clara's chest and Clara rested a hand on her pale back, her eyes narrowed by the face-consuming grin that spread on her face. She stroked her daughter's dark hair and stared at her tiny hands—clenching and unclenching like she was searching for something to hold onto—and decided right then and there that she'd always be that something for this baby. She leaned down and kissed her matted hair (Charlotte made an audible sound of disgust at this), dazed and ecstatic, and rubbed the baby's tiny palm with her forefinger. She fell in deep, irreversible love when her baby wrapped her small hand around her mother's finger, clenching like that was precisely what she'd been searching for. And maybe it was. Perhaps they had been searching for each other all along.

Clara couldn't tear her eyes from her baby until the Doctor set his hand on her arm. She looked up, noticing as her vision shifted that her gown and the blanket and her hand were covered in the mess coating her baby's skin, and gave him a tearful smile.

"She's so perfect," she said. She was dizzy and overwhelmed. She didn't know where to look: at her infant, at the Doctor, or at Martha. She felt another wave of pain, but she couldn't care. She didn't care about anything they did until a nurse was gently pulling her baby from her.

"No!" Clara protested immediately. The Doctor followed after the nurse nervously, asking her repeatedly what she was doing with their baby. She rolled her eyes at the Doctor as she gently washed the baby and yelled something to the other nurse about _new parents_.

In the rush of birthing a new life, Clara had forgotten that there was still the placenta to deal with. But by this point, she felt she could have done anything in the entire world. She'd always thought giving birth would wipe her out, but she felt stronger than she'd been at the start. It was an amazing thing to know you'd just brought another human into the world. She delivered the afterbirth in only a few minutes time and listened as Martha told her about the minimal, first-degree lacerations she'd sustained during the birth and how they'd mend themselves without stitches, but her words were drowned out by love when the Doctor returned to her side, this time with a freshly washed baby in his arms. Her baby. It made her giddy to think that.

He was openly weeping, his lips still turned up into a quivering smile. _"She's so beautiful,"_ is all he managed to say. And Clara knew that she was, just as she knew that this was the hopeful moment the Doctor had always needed. This was the proof that life could give beautiful things just as it could take them away. That sometimes the universe made bargains after all.

Clara was still dizzy, and she wasn't sure if it was from joy or overexertion, but it made everything strangely dreamlike. She felt her dad kiss her forehead and Charlotte hug her shoulders, and then they were gone and she wasn't sure where they went. The nurses took away the dirtied blankets and helped Clara out of her messy gown, gently resting the baby back on her chest. The Doctor pulled the railing down and sat beside her, staring down at her with the most loving expression she'd ever seen him wear.

"Thank you," he told her, his voice soaked with emotion and gratitude. Clara had been counting her baby's heartbeats and tiny breaths, her fingers stroking the delicate skin of her back. She glanced up at her husband, her eyes widening a little with surprise.

"You're welcome." She told him honestly, her voice soft and tender. She looked back to their baby, giving her soft hair another kiss. She kept her cheek pressed to the top of the baby's head for a few moments, letting her own breathing match up with the infant's. "I would do it again." She realized. For all that pain, there was such great reward.

He laughed, leaning over to kiss the baby's shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the side of Clara's head afterwards. "Let's get this one home before we start talking about having more." He teased lightly. His fingertips were gentle and curious as he touched her forehead, his eyebrows pulled down in confusion. "Why on _earth_ have you got blue paint on yourself?"

Clara grinned sheepishly. "It's periwinkle. And it's the color of our baby's nursery."

He blinked. "Since when?"

She glanced down at the sheets and casually bit her lip. "Since…right before my water broke."

"Clara! Tell me you didn't move all that furniture by yourself!" He gasped.

Clara glanced back up at him. "Maybe I did. But look what we got because of it!" She ran her hand over the baby's hair once more, feeling her heart swell to an impossible point. She hadn't known it was possible to love something this much, but now that she did, it seemed the most natural thing of all. "Did you win your match?"

His beam was back. "The final score was four to one!" Clara watched as the excitement in his eyes faded to deep affection. "This was one of the best days of my entire life. It's right up there with our wedding and that day you brought me a soufflé."

Clara touched his arm. Her own heart was lighter and fuller than it had ever been. For once, there was nothing negative stowed away. "I'm so proud of you."

He looked at her, a little bemused. "_You're _proud of _me_? All I did was kick a football around. I'm proud of _you_. I'm more than proud. I'm…I just think you're the most amazing person in the entire world. And I'm the luckiest for knowing you."

Clara hid her smile into her baby's hair, letting her eyes drift shut against her steady dizziness. She kissed her baby's itty fingers and whispered a truth into her hair. "You're going be so loved. You already are."

The Doctor left her side momentarily for the sake of dimming the lights, hoping to lessen the strain on their baby's eyes in hopes she'd open them. Clara had seen her eyelids flutter open momentarily a few times, but she always cringed back against Clara's bare chest and shut her eyes once more. Once he was back at her side, the Doctor noticed the baby's eyes fluttering open before Clara did. She glanced down at the baby's face after seeing the lovesick smile gracing the Doctor's.

"She's got brown eyes." She said in surprise, her heart rising up her throat. "I didn't think…I thought all babies had grey-blue eyes?"

The Doctor slid down slightly on the bed so he was lying on his side, his head propped up on his hand, eye-to-eye with their baby. He kissed her tiny nose and almost giggled with joy as he studied her alert, peaceful eyes.

"That's actually a myth. Look, she's got a little green in there, do you see?" He asked excitedly. Clara leaned her head over, impatiently sweeping her sweaty hair back so it didn't fall into her baby's face, and stared at her eyes. They were a deep, dark brown, with a little greenish tint around the edges. She was so overjoyed she fidgeted a bit, feeling like she wanted to follow in the Doctor's footsteps and do a happy dance.

"I see it!" She told him. They locked eyes and laughed gleefully together.

Clara had enjoyed their brief moment of peace, but it was soon over. She spent the next thirty minutes with the lactation consultant, figuring out exactly how to nurse and how often and how to hold the baby as she did and every other thing she'd spent hundreds of pounds on books for. But soon they were alone again and all Clara's fears had evaporated. She no longer felt like she wasn't enough for anyone or anything, because she'd been enough to create and bring life into this world, and what more did she need to prove? She felt, somehow, that she'd made her mother proud.

She asked everyone to leave them alone while the baby nursed, feeling that she'd been on display for the world enough today. She leaned against the Doctor's side and listened to his breathing, thinking that as much as he'd irritated her during the last few weeks of her pregnancy, there was never anyone as wonderful as him. The baby's tummy was still impossibly tiny, so she was full quickly. She fell asleep against her mother's chest, her lips parted and her fragile skin flushed from her mother's body heat. Clara draped a sheet over her top half—enough to shield her naked torso but leave the baby's head free. They took visitors after that, sensing that everyone was growing impatient, but soon she got into an argument with Tara—who wanted her to wake the baby up so she could hold her—and that put an end to that pretty quickly. She watched Charlotte singlehandedly persuade Tara to leave the room, firm and unwavering in her dedication to her friend's happiness, and it was so easy then. After all those months of searching with frustration through name books, it'd never been simpler.

Clara looked down at her sleeping daughter and then back up at her husband. She smiled peacefully.

"Lottie." She decided.

The Doctor peered at her curiously for a moment. His understanding grew as well as his smile.

"It sounds like Lolly." He said happily. He turned and glanced at Charlotte, now casually standing in the doorway and talking with Tara to keep her from barging back in. He looked back at Clara. "Short for Charlotte?" He surmised.

Clara nodded. "It's fitting, seeing as though she might not even exist had Charlotte not put up with me that week. And no telling what I would have done had I been alone during my entire labor."

The Doctor smiled at her friend affectionately. "She's a good one." He noted. He looked back down at their daughter and traced his finger lightly down her tiny nose, grinning when it scrunched up in her sleep. "Charlotte Elsie."

Clara felt her heart grow warm. She peered at her husband curiously. "Elsie? Why Elsie?"

He met Clara's eyes again, his soft. "You don't remember?"

She twisted her mouth guiltily. "No, I don't recall. I'm sorry."

He laughed lightly. "Well…when we were six, we used to play house, and you'd carry around that baby doll you never played with except when we pretended to be pretend-married secret agents and we called her—"

"Elsie." Clara remembered with a smile. She looked back to Lottie with soft eyes. "She was our spy baby."

"Capable of completing our innocent cover image as a "simple married couple" while we stole millions from the government." The Doctor continued. "Nothing throws off suspicions like a baby."

They met eyes again and laughed. Clara was certain his soul was alight with just as much all-consuming joy as hers, and it was perfect.

"Charlotte Elsie Oswald-Smith." She concluded. She pondered it. "It's a mouthful, but I want it to be. It should never be simple for someone to say her name, because speaking to or about her should be a momentous thing. Because she's going to be amazing."

She knew it like she knew nothing else.

* * *

Charlotte was altogether flattered and horrified when they'd told her what they'd done, later when they decided to give visiting another go.

"How in the world can I compete with that?" She complained. "You name your first born after me and what do I have to repay you with? Naming all my potted plants Clara?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "This isn't about repaying me. You held my hand when I needed it most and you're pretty cool when you want to be. Not to mention 'Lottie' is closest to the Doctor's nickname for her, which unfortunately stuck firmly in my mind."

The Doctor grinned proudly. "She is such a Lolly. And a Lottie. They both fit her perfectly."

Charlotte sighed and fell down onto the edge of the hospital bed, staring curiously at the infant.

"She's pretty." She told the new parents, her eyes filled with surprised affection. "And normally I think newborn babies are just the ugliest little things."

Dave was in agreement with Charlotte when he returned. He'd gone to Clara and the Doctor's house to grab the Doctor a clean change of clothes, even though he was still cross with him. The Doctor slipped into the bathroom to change while Dave hugged his daughter gently, mindful not to disturb the snoozing baby wedged between them. He sat down on the edge of the bed and touched his granddaughter's face lightly, his eyes growing a little misty.

"I have a granddaughter." He realized. "I'm a grandpa." He sniffed a second later and then looked away from Clara. "Oh, I wish your mother was here to see this. Me crying over a newborn baby girl again."

Clara waited to feel deep sadness overtake her, but she had no room for sorrow. There was too much joy in her heart.

"If Mum was here, she'd be crying too." Clara said. Dave laughed a little at that and looked back at his daughter.

"Have you decided on a name?" He asked curiously.

Clara nodded. She reached down and readjusted the sheet over herself and her baby, taking a moment to admire Lottie's light eyebrows with a smile. She glanced back up, her smile still in place.

"Lottie." She shared.

Dave beamed, turning his gaze back to the baby's face. "She looks like a Lottie."

Clara nodded in agreement. "She does. We considered Ellie, you know. For a long time. But it was just too hard. I didn't want to somehow taint my relationship with my daughter by always thinking of Mum whenever I said her name. I'm just not ready for that yet."

Dave nodded understandingly. "Honestly, it would have been hard for me too if you had named her that."

Clara was ready to focus on what was there and not what had been lost.

* * *

Ten and Rose showed up a little later, an energetic Jenny bouncing between them, and Rose was quick to shower compliments on their newborn. Jenny sat up on the bed beside her aunt while the Doctor and Ten talked, staring curiously at her cousin. Clara smiled as the blonde toddler gave the newborn a sweet kiss on the forehead, looking up to her mother and laughing excitedly about the baby. Clara heard Ten congratulating the Doctor, and when she glanced at them, it made her beam to see them hugging tightly. She didn't get to see that often. She met Rose's eyes and nodded towards their husbands.

"Always feels a bit overdue when they do that." Rose commented. She was smiling as well. "Seems they spend a lot of their time fighting their obvious affection for each other."

Clara nudged the blonde woman, her eyes twinkling. "Well, you remember what they were like when they were teenagers. Always competing. I think it's a hard habit to break. Someone's got to enter the world or leave it to get them to look the other way."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Blimey, they could get so annoying back then. It's a wonder that we even let them near us today." She looked back down at the sleeping infant and smiled. "How was the birth? Honestly, I mean. Woman to woman. Mum to mum."

Clara met Rose's eyes, glad to have someone she could talk to who had actually given birth before too. "Woman to woman: it was traumatic. Mum to mum: it was worth it and then some."

Amy and Rory arrived sometime later, out of breath and flushed with excitement. Amy was clutching two cotton sleepsuits and Rory had a bouquet of pink roses and white chrysanthemums, already in a crystal vase.

"I wasn't sure whether you wanted her to wear pink or the more non-conformist choice of green, so I got both." Amy explained. Her voice was rushed and her movements were even more frantic as she set her hands on the Doctor's shoulders and jumped up and down. "You're a daddy! A father! A papa!" She squealed.

Rory crossed immediately to the bed and greeted Clara, gently setting the flowers down on the bedside table.

"How are you feeling?" He asked kindly.

Clara smiled at him and reached up, giving his hand a squeeze in thanks. "I'm great. Those are beautiful, thank you."

He beamed proudly. "Amy wanted to get daisies but I remembered your love for chrysanthemums." He leaned over the bed, peering at Lottie. "Can I hold her?"

Clara was glad to pass the recently-bundled baby to him. Rory the first of their friends to hold Lottie and, truthfully, he was the one she trusted with the baby most. He met Amy's eyes a few seconds after cradling Lottie gently against his chest.

"I want one." He blurted out, his eyes wide with longing.

Clara met the Doctor's eyes. She could see her own thoughts echoed there. _So it begins, _she thought with humor, thinking back to how their own journey to becoming parents had started. She hoped that Amy's and Rory's would be a less bumpy ride, but truthfully, she wouldn't have changed any of it. Life was perfect in its own imperfect, impossible way.


	17. Coda

**A/n: **The next chapter will either be one set during the teenage years or the last chapter- I haven't decided yet. It's been difficult to determine where to stop this story because there's so much that can be done, but I'm worried that I'm dragging it out. The last thing I want is to bore everyone to death, especially considering that I have an inability to post chapters of reasonable lengths (sorry about that!). Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, PMed, favorited, and/or alerted this story! It's been enjoyable to write and I hope it's been enjoyable on your end as well!

* * *

_adaptation, one plus one is one, and unquestionable loyalty _

* * *

The first small silhouette had appeared in their doorway at only midnight, with sleep-tousled hair and a quivering bottom lip. She was tiny beneath her too-long nightdress with a light glaze of tears over her green eyes, and she was exceedingly uninterested in any scenario that involved her sleeping alone in her "big girl bed". The Doctor- exhausted from a day of surgical survey- couldn't find the energy to fight with the two-year-old, and his wife was similarly beaten down. She crawled between them with two of her favorite dolls clutched tightly in her arms and latched onto her father, her tears drying quickly on her cheeks.

The Doctor drifted off to sleep around one, with his daughter now lying directly on his chest and his wife curled up against his side. Their gentle breathing lulled him into a light sleep that a sharp, high pitched cry tore him out of quickly. He jerked awake at the same time as Clara, his panicked eyes finding hers in the dim light, and then they were both scrambling out of the covers because they knew their son's cries. And that one hadn't sounded normal in the slightest.

Ellabell whimpered in her sleep when her parents left her side, but she merely turned over and burrowed further down into the sheets. Clara opened the door leading to the small bedroom Bristol was in, the Doctor right on her heels, and flipped the lights on. The Doctor's eyes sought out his son, standing up in his crib and gripping the railing as he sobbed, and he felt his stomach twisting at the agony on his one-year-old's face.

He watched Clara lift Bristol up into her arms, her tired eyes alert with concern, and he hurried across the small space to join them. Clara cradled their son close to her, her face pressed against the top of his head as she murmured soothing condolences. He normally ceased crying once his head was resting on his mother's shoulder, but this distressed screaming continued. The Doctor walked beside her and gently caressed his son's forehead, feeling his heart drop at the heat searing from his skin.

"He's burning up." The Doctor whispered. All of his earlier exhaustion was fading to panicked alertness. He met his wife's eyes, seeing his own worry reflected there.

"I know. I can feel it through my shirt." She said, her words wracked with worry. Bristol had been sick with a cold for the past few days, but it hadn't been bad at all. He'd been fussy but they'd assumed it was just because of his constantly runny nose (he hated getting his nose wiped). The Doctor had kissed his forehead before he went to sleep and it'd all been fine. He was reminded for what felt like the hundredth time how quickly illness could sneak up on people.

Clara carried Bristol to the kitchen, rubbing his back and whispering gentle things to him that the Doctor couldn't quite make out from his few paces ahead of her. He carefully measured out some ibuprofen while Clara pressed a cool washcloth to Bristol's forehead, her brow furrowed with regret as he cried out at the temperature. His cries of pain were a mingled jumble of sobs and "mamadadamamadada", like he was pleading with them to make it better. The Doctor never felt more unqualified as a doctor or a father than he did when his children were ill, because it never felt like anything was enough. Soothing their pain temporarily wasn't what he wanted and he couldn't be satisfied until he could keep them from hurting at all in the first place. Seeing your child suffering was one of the most volatile miseries, especially when you knew you couldn't do much to help them.

Bristol quieted for a moment as the Doctor coaxed him into taking the medicine, but soon he was screaming again, his face red from the effort. He latched his arms tightly around Clara's neck and clung onto her, refusing to accept the cool washcloth. The Doctor touched Clara's waist and left the room momentarily- just long enough to retrieve the otoscope he kept in his at-home "doctor's bag", something he'd quickly realized the necessity for after Lottie was born- and returned a few minutes later. Clara moved Bristol to her lap and leaned him back against her chest, giving the Doctor access to his ears. He gently held his son's chin forward with one hand and peered into his left ear with the otoscope, seeing something that quickly affirmed his suspicions. His ear drum was red and bulging from a build up of pus.

"Ear infection." He informed his wife. He rose and moved to the seat on Clara's other side, checking his son's right ear as well. He saw a similar story there. Suddenly his son's fussiness seemed almost mild. He must have been extremely uncomfortable the past few days and must have been managing the pain rather well to have only been crying as sporadically as he was.

Clara's voice was tortured. Nothing tore her apart as much as their children's pain. "How? He seemed fine only hours ago!"

The Doctor brushed Bristol's dark hair from his face and kissed his cheek, frowning down at the baby. He met his wife's pained eyes a moment later.

"He's tough. He must have been coping with the pain until he just couldn't anymore." He guessed.

Colds often turned into ear infections in babies and young children, mostly due to their immature Eustachian tubes, but the Doctor had hoped Bristol's cold would leave without causing anymore difficulties. But of course they couldn't be so lucky.

"We'll get him in with the GP as soon as possible and keep giving him pain reliever." The Doctor said. Bristol twisted in his mother's arms and pressed his face into her chest, giving a shuddering breath as his crying began to dwindle to periodic whimpering. Clara's frown was pronounced as she caressed his soft hair. She voiced his next thoughts.

"Let's put him in our bed tonight." She said, even though she didn't need to. They both knew there was no way he was going back into his crib, just like they both knew they wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight either.

They were back in bed ten minutes later, this time lying shoulder-to-shoulder, Ellabell back on her father's chest and Bristol curled up on his mother's. Clara lowered her left hand from Bristol's back at the same time the Doctor freed his right, and they clasped their hands lightly. Shared worries and suffering were communicated quietly and easily between just that one touch.

"He'll be okay." The Doctor assured her, his voice cloaked in whispers to ensure their children didn't stir.

Clara was quiet for a few moments. When she finally spoke, her voice was pained. "I know. I just hate when they're suffering."

The Doctor gripped her fingers tighter, offering her the most support he could. "Me too."

He slept for maybe thirty minutes more, but then the shifting of the bed woke him for the second time that night. Lottie was wordless as she crawled right up onto the bed and wedged between her parents, her stuffed badger hidden underneath her shirt. His raggedy head was peeking out above her collar.

"What's wrong?" The Doctor asked his eldest in concern. Lottie turned on her side and lay diagonally between them, her face pressed against Clara's arm and her little cold feet burrowed beneath the Doctor's thigh. He reached over and stroked her tangled hair back from her face tiredly.

"Coda doesn't like it." She whispered. She yawned deeply a moment later. The Doctor could tell Clara was awake too by the rhythm of her breathing.

"Doesn't like what?" She asked Lottie.

Lottie's small mouth was turned down into a frown.

"When Bristol's sick. He's checkin'." She explained, her words slurred with exhaustion. She fell asleep a few seconds later, and the Doctor thought it likely she wouldn't even remember coming in here once she fully woke up. He shared a bemused look with Clara and then attempted to fall back asleep himself, but he wasn't very successful. Between Bristol's sporadic crying and Lottie and Ellabell's sleep-kicking, he had only gotten around four hours cumulative of sleep once his alarm went off that morning. Clara was just as bad off, and it only took one look at Bristol for them to realize that there was no way they were both making it to work that day. The Doctor put Bristol in a lukewarm bath and gave him another round of ibuprofen while Clara assisted the girls in dressing for the day. Bristol was normally a force of energy in the bathtub and played for hours with his floating building blocks, but he just sat there and cried, reaching up every few moments to bat at his head like he was trying to localize his pain. The Doctor lifted him from the bathtub once his skin felt cooler and wrapped him up in a fluffy towel, relieved when Bristol dozed off in his arms a few minutes later. He met the girls in the kitchen, sitting happily at the table with toast and cups of milk. He noted passively that Ellabell had dressed herself in bubble-gum pink tights, an emerald knit dress, and neon orange wellies. Clara passed him his mug of tea and sat on the edge of his chair, leaning against his side. She touched Bristol's sleeping face gently, smiling in relief at his painfree expression, and then turned her eyes to their daughters. The Doctor wrapped his free arm around her as she addressed their daughter's particular fashion choices.

"She dressed like that, looked in the mirror, and said: 'Mummy, I'm beautiful!'." Clara whispered to him. When the Doctor glanced down at her face, he saw she was looking at Ellabell with an affectionate smile. She met his eyes a second later. "I couldn't make her change after that. She was so proud of herself."

The Doctor beamed. "It's fine. She's a trendsetter." He decided. He looked to Ellabell and lifted his voice. "Ellie, you look beautiful today." He complimented.

Ellabell grinned hugely, her cheeks puffed out from the huge bite of toast she'd just taken. The Doctor looked to Lottie next, who was wearing her favorite denim dress over a yellow top, Coda tucked safely beneath her clothing like he almost always was. She'd pulled her mother's grey cardigan on over her outfit, like she did every day and had since she was old enough to dress herself. Clara spent her entire maternity leave with Lottie wearing that cardigan over her shirts, due to her tendency to get colder easier while nursing, and at some point Lottie had gotten deeply attached to it. She slept with it and carried it around like it was a baby blanket from the time she hit twelve months and onward, eventually insisting on actually wearing it despite the fact that it almost reached her ankles. It was long on Clara and therefore swallowed up her four-year-old daughter, but Lottie refused to take it off until they were pulling up to nursery school. It took a lot of coaxing the first few days to convince her to put it in her bag during school hours.

"And you look absolutely pretty as can be, Lottie." He told his other daughter. She kicked her legs happily.

The Doctor turned his attention to his wife next, still perched on the edge of his chair. He pushed his hand up underneath her shirt and caressed her bare skin, smiling down at her.

"And Mummy looks gorgeous as always." He declared, earning him an eyeroll from Clara. But he also noticed her lips were still curved up in a smile as she crossed back over to the stove.

Normally the Doctor took Lottie to school on his way to the hospital and Bristol and Ellabell went with Clara, as they stayed at her work's daycare, but they both knew one of them would be staying home. They talked quietly for a few minutes about what they each had to do that day, to determine who could more easily call in sick, while Ellabell and Lottie finished eating. Clara had a full morning, but most of her stuff could be done from home, whereas the Doctor had to sit in on surgeries all morning. He reluctantly told Clara, Ellabell, and Bristol goodbye and ushered Lottie to the car, his mind fuming with bitter thoughts about how much he hated training and hated being away from his family.

Lottie seemed in a similar place.

"Daddy, can I go to work with you?" She pleaded. The Doctor fastened her seatbelt and then pressed a kiss to her head.

"No, it's too icky." He said. He closed her door and crossed over to the driver's side, sliding in quickly to reduce the amount of time spent apart from Lottie, even if they were only separated by a car door. He cherished every second he spent with her, even the sometimes hectic moments in the car, and he wasn't keen on missing more seconds than necessary. He glanced at Lottie after he buckled, noticing her uncharacteristic silence. She was normally talking his ear off. When he looked at her, he saw she had her arms crossed over her chest and was pouting out the window.

"I'm not going to school. I'm staying with you. Ellabell and Bristol get to stay with Mummy." She declared stubbornly. Her eyes- more her mother's eyes in that moment than ever- were narrowed with determination.

The Doctor rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Lottie, you can't come with me. I'm sorry. You won't like it, really. It's a lot of blood." He told her seriously.

She shook her head quickly, her eyes lighting up with foolhardy excitement. "I will like it! I don't care! I like blood!" She insisted. "Please, Daddy!"

He hated to see her excitement grow to resentment, but there was no way a four year old was sitting in on a craniotomy.

"You're going to school, honey. You've got to go to school so you can learn." He told her gently.

She sniffed once, then twice, and soon she was sobbing into Coda's fur. The badger's head turned into a tear absorber.

"I DON'T WANT TO!" She yelled between sobs. She kicked the back of the passenger seat in a fit of fury. "I WANT YOU AND MUMMY! I WANNA STAY WITH YOU!"

The Doctor figured it was a bad sign that she was having this breakdown before they even left the front of the house. He didn't even want to imagine what she'd be like when the time came to walk her to her classroom. He glanced at her in the rearview mirror as he pulled away from their house, his mouth turned down in concern. She hadn't cried about wanting them since the first day they dropped her off.

"You'll see Mummy and me after school, just like always." He promised. "Why don't you want to go to school today?"

She ignored his question. Her next words were passionate and torn. "I won't! That's fibbing! You're fibbing to me!"

He took a deep breath to maintain his patience. The force of her kicks made his bag slide out of the front seat and onto the floor. He resisted the urge to slam his forehead into the steering wheel. "Lottie. Stop kicking the seat." He said firmly, his tone conveying his exhaustion. Lottie stopped kicking and he took another breath, continuing with the last of his patience. "I'm not fibbing to you. I never fib to you."

When he looked back at his daughter, she had big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Even though he knew she was mostly just angry because she wasn't getting her way, it pulled at his heart.

"You didn't eat with us last night!" Lottie accused suddenly, and at first the Doctor thought it was a random thing she'd thought up to be angry about, but then she continued. "I helped Mummy make fish fingers!"

The Doctor felt his stomach plummet sharply. He'd missed dinner last night, for the fifth night in a row, even though he'd thought he'd be able to make it on time. Clara hadn't told him that they'd made his favorite. The thought of them all working together to make his favorite meal, only to sit and wait for him to show up to no avail made him sick with self-loathing, even if it wasn't his fault.

"Oh." He said. He glanced back at her tears and took a deep breath, pulling over onto the side of the road without a moment's hesitation. He undid his seatbelt and opened his door, sliding from the car and then crawling into the backseat with his daughter. He unbuckled her seatbelt and opened his arms, relieved when she immediately dove into his embrace. He smoothed her ponytail and felt her small frame shaking with tears.

"I'm so sorry, Lolly," he whispered into her hair. The usage of that particular nickname seemed to soothe her, perhaps because she hadn't been called it since she started school (per her own insisting). The Doctor woke her up the first day of school with a kiss and a "Good morning, Lolly!", only to feel Lottie put her small hands on his shoulders and lean back to peer at him seriously. "I'm a big girl," she'd told him firmly. "Not Lolly.". It'd been hard those first few weeks to stop himself from calling her the nickname he'd been using for so long, but he respected her tiny, autonomous decision-making enough to try. It was obvious to him now that she connected that nickname with the time when she was smaller and things were less hectic.

He pulled her into his lap and tried to explain why he hadn't been there to her, but he knew that she'd never really understand. To a child, a parent not being there when they said they would be only meant one thing. That they didn't love you enough to be. And the idea that she might think that made him nauseated.

"I'm at work a lot so we can get a bigger house. I'm working hard to be the best." He explained. "Last night I had to help with an operation on someone sick and it took longer than I thought it would. But if I could have been there with you, I would have. You know your fish fingers are my favorite and you're one of my favorite girls."

Her words were muffled against his coat. "You're the bestest already. I wanna stay with you."

Nothing cut him quite like those words. He hugged her close and kissed the top of her head, taking another deep breath to find the strength to say the words he had to.

"I want to stay with you too. I always want to stay with you. Even when you were my little, tiny baby I hated leaving you. But I have to go to work, and you have to go to school. But we'll see each other tonight, okay? I'll be there to sing to you and tuck you in. And I will think about you all day long and miss you so much, just like I do every day when I'm not with you."

She cried harder at that, recognizing by his tone that she wasn't going to get her way. The Doctor knew they were both going to be late, but he couldn't find it in him to pry her off him.

"It's not fair!" She sobbed, holding to her hopeless argument almost as tenaciously as she was gripping her daddy. "Ellie gets to stay with Mummy all day!"

The Doctor sighed heavily. "I know you want to be with us, but I want you to learn awesome stuff. Remember that wicked cloud experiment you showed us?"

Lottie sniffed and thought for a moment. Gradually her crying dwindled. She leaned back and looked up at her father, her face wet with tears. "Yeah." She said. "It was fun."

He nodded. "It was so fun. You were so smart and good at it."

She fought back a smile, still peeved. "I guess."

He offered her a hesitant smile and then reached forward, tickling her tummy just long enough to set free her smile. Her laugh was begrudging and watery.

"How about I come home an hour earlier tonight and you and I can talk all about what you did at school?" He proposed. He had no idea how he was supposed to make that happen, but he knew he'd have to.

Lottie'e eyes lit up at that. She sat up straighter. "Just me and you?"

The Doctor nodded. "Just us. Well, and Coda too." He tapped the badger's head with a smile. Lottie giggled at that and crossed her arms over her chest, hugging the stuffed animal to her.

"Yeah, Coda too." She agreed.

He cautiously lifted her up and moved her back into her booster seat, buckling her in before she started crying again.

"We'd better get to school so you can learn lots of new things to tell me!" He encouraged.

The unhappy look she gave him told him she hadn't forgotten her previous desire, but she didn't cry the rest of the ride, and she parted easily from him at the door to her classroom after only two goodbye kisses. The Doctor, in contrast, sat on the front stoop for five minutes, fighting against the overwhelming desire to run back into the school and take her back home with him. He'd thought he'd gotten over that after his teary departure on her very first day, but apparently not.

* * *

He was almost dangerously distracted the entire morning. His mind was filled with alternative flashes of Bristol's pain-soaked face, Ellabell's quivering hands after her nightmare that night, and Lottie's tears in the car that morning. He thought too of his wife, who hadn't even mentioned to him how much he'd let down his daughter. Or how much he had probably let her down too. She was trying to protect him, but she was failing. In his quest to be the best dad he could be, he was being the worst. And he could think of nothing else.

His distractions didn't cause any major mishaps during the morning rounds, but it was a good thing he had a two hour window to call home, because he wasn't sure he could handle his evening shadowing without some peace of mind. He was only a couple weeks away from finishing up his higher training and becoming fully certified as a neurosurgeon, but it was getting harder to handle rather than easier. And it wasn't that any of it was particularly difficult for him. It was just that he was missing fish fingers nights.

He sat in a corner booth in the hospital cafeteria during his lunch hour, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. He'd had two missed calls from Clara when he pulled his phone from his locker and it was enough to make him panic. He was immensely relieved when Clara picked up on the very first ring.

"I don't know what to do." She greeted him, her voice drawn with anxiety. The Doctor could hear Bristol screaming in the background, so loudly that he was sure it was making his poor throat ache.

The Doctor felt his heart rate pick up instantly. "What's wrong?"

Clara was teary and it was terrifying to the Doctor. Her words came out in a frantic rush, stumbling over each other in her haste to be free of them. "His fever keeps coming back and he's in so much pain. I don't know what to do. I put warm compresses on his ears and I've given him pain reliever, but he's just so miserable. He won't even eat or lie down, I think it makes the pain worse, but he hasn't eaten all day and he's been screaming almost nonstop and Ellie's crying because it's scaring her and I've called the GP and the soonest she can see him is Thursday and she said she'd write him a prescription tomorrow but I just want him better. I can't stand it."

The Doctor pressed his face into his free hand, sucking in a shallow breath.

"Okay." He said. He wracked his brains for a moment, re-conjuring the image of Bristol's eardrums to make sure it hadn't been more severe than he'd thought. But he'd checked his ears again this morning and it definitely wasn't to a hospitalization point yet. He rubbed his forehead and made a decision. "I'm just going to write him a private prescription for amoxicillin. Can you meet me at the pharmacy in a half-hour?"

He heard her coo something desperately to their baby. He could hear Ellabell's cries mingled in with her brother's.

"I can be there in fifteen." Clara informed him.

He didn't even consider the fact that it normally took him a half-hour to get to that area. It was like the promise he'd made to Lottie this morning and every promise he'd ever made to Clara. He had no idea at the time how he'd pull it off, but he always did. His love was an unconditional driving force. "Fifteen it is."

He hurried from the cafeteria and jogged down the street, catching the first taxi he saw. He figured a professional driver had a better chance of getting him there on time than he did if he was driving, seeing as though he got lost heading home sometimes. The driver peered warily at him when he told him where he needed to be in fifteen minutes, but his dubious expression faded to determination when the Doctor promised he'd double the rate if he could get him there on time. He was treated to shortcuts he'd never seen before in the driver's haste to deliver him there, and he was so relieved when he arrived after exactly fourteen minutes that he ended up giving him a little more cash than previously agreed upon.

He heard his family before he saw them. Before he walked through the automatic doors he heard his son's crying, and then he spotted them in the front of the shop beside the baby food aisle. Bristol was sobbing into Clara's shoulder, his face red and covered in tears and snot, and Ellabell was clinging to her mother's leg with a grimace. She spotted the Doctor before Clara and let go of her mother, sprinting full speed towards her father. Clara lifted her head to yell after her fleeing daughter in a panic, only to relax when her eyes met her husband's.

The Doctor lifted Ellabell up into his arms and accepted the messy kiss she gave him. He realized as he walked towards Clara that he hadn't felt grounded until he had one of his children in his arms, and that scared him. He wondered if all fathers felt like that when away from their families, like they were somehow less solid, less themselves. Or if he was just extremely over-protective.

Clara didn't have to tell him she was relieved to see him. It was written all over her face. The Doctor felt Bristol's forehead before doing anything, but it was cool. He shifted Ellabell and reached into his pocket, rummaging around for a pen and something to write on. Clara supported Bristol's weight with one arm and reached down into her handbag with her other, pulling free a notepad and attached pen. The Doctor took it gratefully, giving Clara one of his _what-would-I-do-without-you _looks. The look she gave him back was almost identical.

He scrawled out a prescription for amoxicillin, writing Bristol's name and age carefully and taking a spare moment to double check everything before signing it. It wasn't illegal to write prescriptions for family members, but it wasn't exactly in good tastes either. But the Doctor was past caring.

Clara traded it for a kiss, her lips pressing thankfully to his. He wanted nothing more than to bail on all his responsibilities that day and to just stay home, but he didn't even want to think of the consequences of that. He saw a similar desire in Clara's eyes right when she pulled back, a fierce vulnerability he was positive she meant to keep hidden. But once she was lowering back onto her feet she was regaining her strong, determined air and that brief glimpse was gone.

"I can stay for a little longer." The Doctor found himself saying. "I'll hold Bristol too while you go get it filled."

Clara let her joy at those words leak through for just a moment, and then she was passing Bristol off to him and tucking her hands inside her cardigan sleeves, hurrying off to the pharmacy counter.

With a fussy kid in both arms, the Doctor took to singing silly, made up songs, pressing kisses to their small faces every few stanzas. Something about it calmed them enough to soothe their tears, and soon they were both leaning their heads against his shoulders, their eyes trained peacefully on his face. The Doctor was just about to walk back towards the counter to make sure it was going all right when he spotted Clara, weaving towards them with a paper bag.

"What we needed was there!" She told him in relief as she drew nearer. The Doctor let out a relieved breath as well. Bristol reached sleepily for his mother once she was in front of them and the Doctor passed him to her quickly, lest he start crying again. Bristol was very intent on being with Clara constantly and always had been. The Doctor felt it was a trait his son must have picked up from him, because he had always been intent on being with Clara too.

"Daddy got you some medicine, love," she whispered soothingly to Bristol, rubbing his back comfortingly. "It'll stop hurting soon."

Bristol comprehended none of that, but the tender tone calmed him some anyway. Clara was about to say something to the Doctor when her phone began ringing shrilly, causing Ellabell to shrink closer to the Doctor in surprise. He smiled down at her as Clara answered, giving her a silly face and laughing when she gave him one of her own.

"Hello?" He heard Clara greet. He glanced up and watched her face go from impatient to concerned. "She's _where_?"

The Doctor frowned and shifted closer to his wife. She made a few passive "mhmms" as the person on the other end explained something, and then she let her eyes drift shut and took a deep breath.

"Of course. We'll be there as soon as possible."

The Doctor stared expectantly at her as she ended the call.

"Apparently Lottie's in the headteacher's office." Clara informed him tiredly.

The Doctor's eyes drifted shut with chagrin. "Do I even want to know?"

"There's not much to know. They just told me to come down there." She glanced down at Bristol and then to Ellabell. "I don't guess there's anyway you could come to help me with the little ones?"

The Doctor knew, realistically, there wasn't. But he also knew that he was already reaching for his phone to inform the head neurosurgeon that he was going to be late.

"Let's go." He told Clara. She peered at him skeptically, but he merely smiled reassuringly. "It's fine. I'll call Daniel. Family's first."

He wished she understood how true that was. It was so true it would end up being his downfall one day.

Daniel wasn't too pleased, but the Doctor exaggerated the state of Bristol's ears a bit, spending a good three minutes describing the build up of pus and fluid in his middle-ear to the point that the man was actually seeming a little sympathetic. The Doctor considered staying out in front of the school with the other two, but he figured it wasn't a good idea to send Clara in alone. She wouldn't hesitate to verbally rip apart someone who was uncharitable towards their daughter.

They sat outside the headteacher's office and switched kids, spending five minutes talking to each one and doing their best to keep them occupied. They went ahead and gave Bristol his first dosage of the antibiotic, figuring waiting was doing their son no favors. When they were finally led into the powder blue office, the Doctor was surprised to see Lottie sitting with the nurse, who was holding an ice pack to the side of her head. Lottie stood up immediately when she saw her parents and Clara gently passed Ellabell back to her father, crossing the office in quick strides. Lottie met her mother halfway, pressing her face into her stomach as she started crying.

The Doctor swallowed his sudden fury at the sight of his injured and upset daughter and turned his attention to the headteacher. She rose unhappily from her desk and extended her hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Smith." She greeted. He shook her hand firmly, resisting his sudden urge to squeeze her fingers to the point of pain. As he dropped her hand he wondered if perhaps Clara was the one who needed to watch after his fury and not the other way around.

Clara's eyes were sharp when she turned her gaze from her daughter. She had been gently prodding at the knot on Lottie's temple, her mouth turned down into a frown. She met the headteacher's eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Smith." The headteacher greeted. Clara did not greet her back.

"Oswald-Smith." She corrected automatically. "What's happened?"

Lottie gave another sniffle and Clara turned her gaze back to Lottie without waiting for the headteacher's explanation. She gently wiped the tears from her daughter's cheeks with the pads of her thumbs, her mouth still set in a firm line. She leaned over and lifted Lottie up when she began crying again, holding her almost protectively as if the threat was still present. She gently kissed Lottie's head bump and pressed her cheek to the top of her head, whispering something the Doctor didn't catch. Whatever it was comforted Lottie enough to lessen the distressed death grip she had on her mother's neck.

The headteacher turned to the Doctor, probably sensing that she was forever dead to Clara no matter what she said. He did his best to pay attention to her, but Bristol chose that moment to begin wailing again. He gently bounced his son as he listened.

"Lottie got into a brawl this afternoon." She informed them.

The Doctor furrowed his brow. "A _brawl_?" He repeated. "She's four!"

Lottie leaned back slightly in Clara's arms and grasped her mother's face in her hands, drawing her attention back to her. Ellabell reached across the Doctor's chest and grabbed Bristol's tiny hand in her own, asking him if he wanted to play pat-a-cake. That distracted the baby enough to keep him from continuing to sob.

"They wouldn't let me see Cardi and Coda!" Lottie told Clara, her eyes steadily filling with tears once more. "I want them!"

Clara's frowned matched the Doctor's.

"What do you mean, sweetie?" She asked. "Did you try to take them out of your bag? You know you aren't supposed to."

Lottie shook her head. "No! I always keep them in my bag like you tell me to! I check on Coda after playtime 'cause he is clauderphodics but they wouldn't let me and probably he's scared!"

"Claustrophobic." The Doctor corrected by reflex. He shifted the two kids in his arms, trying to redistribute their weight where his arms didn't feel liable to fall right off, and then he walked closer to Lottie. "Why couldn't you check today?"

The headteacher started to say something, but the Doctor wanted Lottie to explain. She was smart. She knew what happened. He looked up politely at the headteacher anyway.

"Charlotte was brought here right after playtime and couldn't go back to get her bag." She explained. "She got into a scuffle with Lauren on the playground." Clara interrupted her and gestured towards Lottie's bump.

"A four-year-old girl did that? What'd she do, smack Lottie over the head with a rock?!" Clara demanded.

Lottie shook her head and her explanations mingled with the headteacher's.

"LAUREN SAID THAT I COULDN'T PLAY WITH THEM UNLESS I WAS BLONDE-"

"The two started verbally arguing on top of the slide-"

"AND THEN, MUMMY, THEN I SAID I DIDN'T EVEN _WANT_ TO PLAY THEIR STINKY GAME OF TAG ANYWAY AND LAUREN PUSHED ME AND I FELL AND-"

"Lottie lost her balance during the argument and fell backwards down the slide. She hit her head on the side of it as she fell down, but our nurse has assessed it and says it's minor." The headteacher continued, raising her voice to challenge the four-year-old's impassioned speech.

The Doctor and Clara met eyes, both their brows furrowed. The Doctor looked back to the headteacher.

"Did Lauren push Lottie or did Lottie fall backwards?" He asked, just to see what she'd say. He knew when his daughter was lying and when she wasn't, and she wasn't lying now.

The headteacher grimaced. "Unfortunately, no one saw it but Lauren and Lottie, and their stories don't match up."

So she'd chosen to believe Lauren's side of it, and now they were called away from work and home and Lauren's parents weren't.

Clara straightened and turned fully towards the headteacher, her eyes narrowed. Lottie fidgeted and Clara lowered her back to the ground, her eyes still on the headteacher as Lottie crossed the short space between her mother and father and walked up to her dad, still sniffling. The Doctor lowered the arm holding Bristol and shifted the child long enough to stroke Lottie's messy and sweat-soaked hair back from her face. He examined her bump, frowning at it. It wasn't severe enough to warrant worry of head traumas, but it was bad enough to leave an almost egg-sized knot. He couldn't tell if his discontent was justified or simply caused by his over-protective tendencies.

Clara seemed to have chosen the first. Her voice was measured. "I understand how difficult it can be to keep up with so many children, but perhaps there should be more adults out monitoring during playtime. I'll talk to Lottie about arguments, but I think Lauren's parents should be called too. My daughter isn't the clumsy one in my family. She can climb up an open door frame. I find it very difficult to believe that she simply fell backwards off the slide and I expect more to be done about this. She could have been severely injured."

Clara was using her "junior manager" voice. It was never a good sign. The headteacher's face turned down with a grimace and she nodded.

"I'll look into the number of staff we have monitoring during playtime and I'll contact Lauren's parents as well." She promised. "But most of these accidents are caused by misbehaving children."

Bristol whimpered suddenly, growing bored and probably ringing with pain once more. Clara turned, her eyes falling on her son, and nodded towards the door. The Doctor nodded in response and took Lottie's hand.

"Come on, Lottie. Bristol probably misses you. Let's go out in the hall so you can sing to him." He suggested.

Lottie nodded seriously. "Yes, he probably needs me."

The Doctor smiled down at the top of her head. "Absolutely."

He heard Clara's "junior manager" voice pick up volume as soon as the door was shut and he almost felt bad for the headteacher. Lottie held her little brother carefully in her lap and Bristol quieted down, staring up at his big sister with wide eyes and a big smile.

"Lala!" He said happily. The Doctor leaned back against the seat and let out a relieved laugh. Bristol hadn't looked even slightly happy all morning.

Lottie gently bounced her brother on her knees, singing some old nursery rhyme to him, while the Doctor craned his head towards the door to try and figure out what was going on in the office.

Clara left the office around five minutes later. She closed the door firmly behind her and smoothed her shirt, her eyes landing on the Doctor. It was only the flush to her cheeks that tipped him off to the argument that had just went on.

"Time to go. Lottie, we'll walk you back to your classroom and kiss you goodbye." Clara declared.

The Doctor expected Lottie to begin crying at that, but she merely took her mother's hand and nodded.

"Okay. We're finger-painting this afternoon." She informed them all.

Clara and the Doctor exchanged kisses with Lottie and checked her head one more time. They chatted briefly with her teacher, not surprised to find that she believed Lauren _had_ pushed Lottie, and they left with promises that she'd call them if Lottie showed any signs of discomfort from her bump. The Doctor passed Bristol to Clara to free up one of his arms and took Clara's hand after shaking his arm out. He felt he needed the support of her hand in his to handle walking from the school and leaving Lottie behind.

Clara and the Doctor each held a child in their laps during the ride back to the hospital. They decided to take a long taxi ride together instead of taking separate taxis. Bristol insisted on crawling inside Clara's cardigan, cold even when the driver turned the car's A/C down. Clara wrapped the fabric around him, even buttoning it up over him to appease his insistent babbling, and kissed his forehead.

"His fever's back." She whispered. The Doctor wrapped his arm around Clara's shoulders.

"He should be loads better by tonight." He reassured her.

She stared almost angrily out the window to her left.

"I'm not happy." She shared, in reference to what just went on with Lottie. The Doctor frowned.

"I'm not either." He admitted. "What'd she say when we left?"

Clara met his eyes. "Basically implied that Lottie was a spitfire criminal and that we were negligent parents." Her voice grew hard. "I don't care what that woman says. Lottie wasn't doing anything wrong. When the girls were mean to her, she tried to walk away. That's pretty mature for a four-year-old!"

"And doesn't warrant getting pushed down a slide." The Doctor added.

Clara nodded in agreement. "Precisely. It's ridiculous. I don't send my baby there to have her shoved off playground equipment."

The Doctor rested his head against the top of Clara's, allowing his eyes to drift shut for the first time since he'd woken up. He figured it was likely that the little to no sleep they'd both gotten last night was fueling their rage.

"What a day." He sighed.

Clara shifted closer to his side. He felt better with her there, like everything was just a little less grave. "You could say that again."

He heaved a dramatic sigh. "_What_ a _day_!" He repeated, just because he knew it'd make Clara laugh. He was rewarded by a short, amused peal of laughter, one he locked his hands around and stowed carefully away in his memory. He smiled against the top of her head.

"We're surviving and that's what matters." He finally declared. "The kids are ultimately fine. We're fine. We can handle a little middle-ear fluid and a head bump."

"We have handled worse." Clara agreed.

The Doctor laughed humorlessly. "We have indeed. The Doctor and Clara: handling ridiculous things together since 1991."

Clara knocked her shoulder lightly into his and he didn't have to lift his head and look down at her to see her smile. "With the added addition of miniatures since 2011."

The Doctor lowered his voice dramatically. "Ear Infections and Rogue Four-Year-Olds: a thrilling sequel."

Her voice was honest when she spoke next. "No, but, all of this actually is a lot scarier than anything else. This parenting thing, I mean. And I thought running from the law in a foreign country was terrifying. It's nothing compared to childhood illness and accidents."

He nodded with wide eyes to show his agreement. They were both unhappy when the time came for the Doctor to part from them, but as Clara had said, they'd handled worse. It just felt sometimes, as he was walking away from them, that there could be nothing worse. He kissed them all goodbye and spent the rest of the day trying his hardest to give his work his full attention, but it was difficult. His heart was louder than his head and his heart wanted nothing to do with any of this.

He'd never really believed in karma or luck, but some good fortune was obviously on his side because he ended up finishing with the day an hour and twenty minutes earlier than planned. Lottie's thrilled giggles when he walked through their door- early as promised- were more than precious. They were completely irreplaceable.

True to the Doctor's earlier promise, Bristol was feeling better. They all sat together at dinner and no one cried even once. Bristol managed to eat a few pieces of broccoli, much to his parents' delight, and things were almost blissfully calm in comparison to the day they'd all had. Clara was supposed to spend almost all night catching up on the work she'd missed during the day, but she wandered into the living room after only thirty minutes of working, a fresh mug of tea in her hands. She sat down on the couch beside the Doctor- who was watching a "fashion show" the girls were putting on and pressing warm, wet facecloths to Bristol's ears- and curled up against his side. The Doctor lowered the cloths and leaned over slightly, just enough to press his lips to Clara's. She tasted like honey and it left a sweet, homey taste in his mouth even after he pulled back.

"Are you done working?" He asked. Bristol stared at his sisters as they began to gather their costumes to take back to the wardrobe and began squirming in the Doctor's arms. He hadn't wanted to walk or even sit by himself all day long, probably due to his pain, so it made the Doctor immensely happy to see him slowly returning to his old self. He carefully set him down on the floor and helped him stand, watching him take a few slow, stumbling steps after his sisters, but finally he grew frustrated and lowered back to the floor for the sake of crawling after them instead.

"Lottie, Bristol is coming!" Clara yelled, her eyes on their crawling son.

"OKAY! I GOT 'EM!" Lottie yelled back excitedly.

Clara gradually turned her eyes back to her knees. The Doctor reached over, settling his hand on her thigh.

"Work?" He pressed curiously. "Are you done?"

Clara shrugged, turning her eyes down to the cloudy contents of her mug. "Sometimes it all seems so..."

She couldn't seem to find the word, but it was okay. Because the Doctor had found it a long time ago.

"Pointless. Counter-productive." He supplied.

She looked up at him in relief, as if it lightened her stress to know he felt the same way too. She nodded intently.

"Yes." She said firmly. She shifted closer and turned so she was facing him fully, her knees pressing into his thigh. "It feels just like that."

He smiled lovingly at her, not at all surprised that she understood exactly where his mind was. She always did and always had. He'd never bought the idea of soulmates, but he couldn't help but feel like there was something customized and specific about the way they worked together.

"I guess that's being an adult." He shared, voicing the realization he'd slowly been learning the past few years. "Doing things you don't want to do so you can afford to do the things you do want to do. Working nonstop in order to afford to give your children a life you didn't have, even if by working nonstop you're inadvertently giving them a taste of a life you _didn't_ want them to have." He glanced down at her, meeting her deep eyes. She seemed pulled apart and worried, and he was intent on putting her back together again. He kissed her for a second time, thinking fondly of how beautiful she was and continued to get with each passing day, and then offered her the optimistic bit of his revelation. "But luckily love transcends all. I didn't used to think so, but there was this mad six-year-old who taught me differently."

She smiled softly, affectionately, and for a moment she was eighteen again, with pulled up hair and tender eyes, holding his hands underneath an autumn tree and vowing to love him forever. He'd seen the future in her eyes that day, like a book he'd read hundreds of times, with each page of perfect comfort dog-eared and faded and every sentence of struggle streaked with tear-tracks. She had held within her an infinity that morning and he could see it even now, and he could see it in his children too.

They didn't part eyes until Bristol crawled back into the room, making his way towards his mother, his face pursed with determination. His small hands pressed to her knees as he slowly and shakily lifted himself up, earning him an excited and proud coo from his mother as she lifted him up onto her lap. She cuddled him and pressed a kiss to his forehead, most likely double-checking that his temperature was still down. Bristol pressed his face against her chest and shut his eyes contentedly, babbling something in his own little language. The only words the Doctor recognized were their names ("dada", "mama", "lala", and "ewwa"), but he was sure Bristol was trying to have a conversation with them. So he met his son's eyes and nodded seriously, listening intently with a smile, and that earned him a gleeful giggle from the baby.

"MUMMY! DADDY!" Ellabell whined. "Look at me!"

They gazed at their daughters, recently returned from their voyage to their dress-up wardrobe. Lottie had paired her mother's grey cardigan (or "Cardi" as she called it) with one of the Doctor's old medical coats he let them dress up with, causing her arms to appear double the size they normally were from the too-large layers, and Ellabell was as flamboyant as always in a highlighter orange sequined dress and a police hat.

"I'm a traffic cone." Ellabell informed them seriously.

"Very creative." Clara complimented. The Doctor clapped, earning him a clumsy bow from the toddler. Ellabell took dress-up very seriously.

Lottie giggled and giggled and giggled, like she was thinking of the funniest thing in the entire world. Her parents watched her bemusedly as she fell to the floor in a fit of laughter.

"What are you, Lolly?" The Doctor asked her, suppressing laughter of his own.

She looked up at them, her cheeks rosy from giggling so much.

"I'm Mummy and Daddy!" She informed them, and then she was laughing again like she'd told the funniest joke there was. They looked at each other with humored looks of confusion, finally shrugging and shaking their heads.

It was later that night that Lottie's costume finally made some sense to the Doctor. He had just given Bristol his last dosages for the night and had settled him down in his crib, turning on the CD he always listened to as he drifted off to sleep. Bristol clutched his stuffed elephant loosely in his arms and cooed along with the music softly in gibberish. It left a soft smile on the Doctor's face for the entire walk back to his own bedroom. Clara was straightening their sheets when he walked in, her back to the door. He could tell his quiet entrance had gone unnoticed, so he crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her back against him. She didn't jump even a bit; she merely leaned back against him and smiled.

"Is Bristol down?" She asked. He could hear the thick exhaustion in her voice.

"Yeah. He's his normal, happy self again." The Doctor said happily.

Clara's smile expanded. "Good. That makes me happy."

He tipped her chin up and leaned over her face, about to lower his lips to hers, only to have her lift herself up on her tiptoes and beat him to it. She grinned against his lips right before she lowered back down.

"Too slow," she said lightly.

He rolled his eyes as she laughed tauntingly. He thought about the twinkle in her eyes right after she kissed him the entire time he got ready for bed, his heart warm and his own lips still curved up in an amused smile. They curled up against each other in the middle of the bed, and it was when their breathing synchronized that the Doctor understood. He began chuckling tiredly, earning him a confusion nudge from Clara.

"What?" She asked.

He grinned into the crown of her head, tightening his arms around her. "I get Lottie's costume. She was Mummy and Daddy. Like as one person."

Clara sighed into his shirt. "You just got that? She had my cardigan and your coat on and she said "I'm Mummy and Daddy!'."

He ignored her sass. "I knew what she was. I just didn't quite realize what it meant. She could have dressed up as Mummy or as Daddy, but she didn't. She dressed up as MummyandDaddy, as one unit. It's adorable."

Clara sighed again, but he could feel her smile against his bare chest.

"We make a great team." She whispered tiredly. "It's no wonder she sees us like that."

He smiled again. "We _are_ like that. We always have been." He gave the covers a gentle tug, trying to free some from Clara's grip. "But you've got to surrender more of the covers. That's the one area we aren't in sync."

She curled her body closer to his. "And is that really even an area of importance when you think about all the bigger places we are in sync?" She asked innocently.

"Blanket thief." He accused.

"You love it. And you love me." She said knowingly. He bit back his grin, as if she'd somehow sense that he was smiling.

"Yeah. That I do." He agreed.

Tara was forever questioning him on that basic fact, as if she just couldn't fathom why the Doctor or anyone else for that matter would love Clara so much. But it was because she didn't see what he did. If he could have somehow explained to her what it felt like to come home to Clara's arms at the end of each day, even that small moment would be enough to explain the depth of his feelings. If she could just experience a morning or a night in his life, just a couple of hours, she would never doubt their relationship ever again. She would see the way Clara sometimes woke abruptly during the night and searched the sheets for him, only falling back to sleep once she was reassured by the rising and falling of his chest. If she could live as him, she'd know all his secrets, one of the main being the careful way he counted any and every bruise on Clara's body, filing them away in his mind and keeping careful records of their duration. She'd know the way Ellie's sudden death had stained Clara and the ways it'd stained the Doctor too. She'd see Clara and truly see her beauty for what it was: deep and all-reaching. She'd get, once and for all, why it was this girl that had pulled him from the shadows of his old life. Because she was the brightest thing of all. And then, finally, she would understand why Lottie saw them as MommyandDaddy. Because they were, and always had been, two pieces of one whole.

"I'll see you in the morning." The Doctor promised, his voice slurring the closer sleep held him.

It was the strongest proclamation of love there was.


	18. Teenage Truth

**A/n**: I've made a more structured outline with a planned ending point, so everything's feeling a bit less messy. I hope those still with the story enjoy this chapter.

* * *

_lovesickness, two steps back, and a large-chinned savior_

* * *

They were giggling together in the college supply cupboard, sweaty skin stuck to sweaty skin, when the Doctor asked her.

"I want you to come to my house for dinner. A birthday dinner."

She was naked, her back pressed painfully into an industrial shelving unit, clumps of dust sticking to her damp skin. She was initially confused as to why he'd ask so hesitantly, especially considering that he'd just spent the past few minutes inside of her, because surely he knew by now that she'd do anything for him. But it hit her, slowly, the way snowflakes build up in the winter until suddenly you're standing in a drift of snow up to your knees.

"Dinner. With Tara." She stated. She didn't ask, because she knew. She knew by his hesitant expression.

He took a moment to gently push a few wayward strands of her hair back behind her ear, his lips pursed. He took a slight half-step back from her, and the lack of full-body contact made her shiver in the drafty air.

"Yeah." He admitted. "But she's not as bitter anymore! It'll be good, I promise. Ten'll be there too, but he promises not to tease you."

Clara crossed her arms uneasily and then wiggled her way out from between him and the shelves. Her body felt strangely empty, like it'd acclimated to the Doctor and wasn't quite sure what to do with the empty places between them now. She could feel pain in her back and abdomen from the awkward positions they'd been in during their rendezvous and it made her feel sudden shame. She loved being with the Doctor, and she'd be a liar if she said she didn't love shagging him just as much, but each time they skipped classes she told herself it'd be the last time. But it never was. All he had to do was flash a smile her way in the hallway, all elbows and secretive glances, and she'd forget all reasons why going to class even mattered. He had a way of narrowing her world until all that mattered was him. And now she was trapped with him in this supply cupboard, forced to confront her venomous refusals to be with Tara for any extended amount of time.

She started to pull her clothes back on, her expression twisted. The Doctor touched her shoulder gently.

"Why won't you ever come over to my house?" He asked her softly. "You haven't been inside once since I got back from Cardiff. I just want…them to see how beautiful you are. To see your dimples when you laugh. I want you to be part of the family like I'm part of yours."

She turned in the small space so her back was to him as she struggled to pull her skirt back on. His words shook her resolve and she didn't want him to see the sudden crack in her façade. She didn't want him to know that, deep down, Tara's hatred of her mattered.

"I'd like that too. But we both know that's not on me, Doctor." She finally said. She tucked her blouse back into her skirt and turned, staring uneasily at the Doctor as she straightened her hair. She refastened her hair clip with shaking hands, trying to ignore the fears resurfacing in her mind. Her refusal to be with Tara for any length of time had less to do with Tara's coldness and more to do with Clara's fears that she'd say something about her mother. She didn't think she could take seeing Tara mention her, knowing that Tara had spent the past few years bitterly hating Clara. She hated pity most of all, and seeing Tara offer her condolences would feel like the greatest pity there was. Pity had a way of making her cave in on herself, as if another person's conviction of her suffering was enough to double it in her eyes. If Tara believed her to be in enough pain to deserve fake sympathy, it must be true that she was dying again. It must be true that the pain was so great she really couldn't handle it.

Or, on the flip side, there was the chance Tara would be as harsh as ever. And even though Clara would never admit it, she hadn't quite been up to par since her mother passed. Things were crueler and sharper now. Words cut deeply and left permanent stings without the security of her mother's love and adoration in her life.

She was examining her shoes until the Doctor's fingers touched her chin. He gently lifted her head and redirected her line of vision until she was looking into his eyes. His fingers spanned her cheeks, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles, and his eyes were warmer than anything else.

"What is it?" He pressed.

She shrugged. "Nothing." She lied. She smiled tightly and lifted herself up onto her tiptoes long enough to press a kiss to his lips. "I'll see you after class."

She was already to the door when he finally spoke up, his voice folded and confusion.

"But you didn't answer me." He called.

Clara hesitated in front of the door, her fingers curving around the handle. She looked back at him for a moment, just long enough to see how much he wanted her there. She wished she hadn't.

"It's my birthday, Doctor." She finally said. "I don't know if I want to spend it getting insulted."

He paused in his redressing, facing her fully. His eyes were pleading.

"You won't! You won't. I promise. Just a dinner. A normal dinner with your boyfriend's family. There'll be cake and I've even wrapped your present. All by myself." He lifted his hand, revealing the thin papercut inside his middle finger that she'd noticed earlier. His lips were turned down in a pout. "I've got battle wounds."

She sighed heavily, because how on earth was she supposed to say no when he was being so endearing? She turned and practically dragged her feet as she crossed the distance between them, as if her heart was enslaving her (and sometimes it felt like that). She grasped his shoulders and kissed him, careful to not kiss him too much or too deeply and to keep her hips from pressing against his, or else she'd be in here all day. He had that effect on her.

"Fine." She said. She pulled back and turned before she flung herself back into his arms and shagged him for the second time that day. "I'll see you at seven?"

She could tell he was grinning from the way his posture changed in the corner of her eye.

"Yes! Seven's splendid!" He said excitedly. She'd just touched the handle again when he spoke up. "Oh, and Clara? Happy birthday."

She bit the inside of her cheek against the face-consuming grin that threatened to overtake her.

"Thanks for the birthday shag." She replied.

His voice was equal parts confused and suggestive when he spoke.

"That wasn't your birthday shag. That was just a good morning shag." He explained.

Clara turned despite herself, lifting her eyebrows. "Oh? Well, good morning to me then."

He beamed. "And a good morning it is. Have fun in Business Studies."

She had to practically scream at her body to turn from his. "And you have fun in Bio."

But they both knew they wouldn't really be present in either of those classes. She'd sit in Business Studies, twirling her pencil between her fingers, thinking cheekily about the Doctor. And he'd do the same in Biology, and it'd be that way for both of them, until they were back together again.

* * *

Clara had already had a birthday breakfast that morning with her dad, but she decided to invite him to the dinner at Tara's anyway. However, it was clear to her as soon as she got home that he wouldn't be going much of anywhere. He'd tried his hardest to be normal that morning, and he'd done a great job. He carried her presents into her room and opened them with her and made her breakfast. He even told a few jokes and laughed a bit. But that seemed to have drained him, because by the time Clara walked through the doorway, he was back in his bedroom.

"Clara? Is that you?" He called, right after she shut the front door.

Clara set her bag on the floor, swallowing her sudden sadness.

"Yeah Dad." She called. "It's me."

She heard the bed creak and her dad appeared at the doorway a moment later, already in his pajamas like the day was over. And for him, it was. But he smiled when he saw her and walked over, pulling her into a warm hug, and Clara appreciated it deeply because she knew just how hard even that little bit was for him.

"Happy birthday again, love. Did you have a good day at school?" He asked.

Clara pulled back from his embrace after a moment, smiling up at him and nodding.

"Yeah, it was good. The Doctor and I got lunch together." She replied. She pushed forward, figuring she might as well ask, even if she knew the answer. "Actually, he wants me to come to his house for a birthday dinner. Do you want to join?"

Dave dropped his eyes from hers, looking to the floor instead. He took a half-step back from her, his hands falling off her shoulders.

"Ah, well, I'm kind of tired." He admitted. "But if you want me to go, I can—"

"No," Clara said quickly. She turned her back to him, swallowing thickly. "No, that's okay. I'll be all right. It's just dinner."

"Just dinner." He repeated.

But it didn't feel like "just dinner" to Clara. She spent an hour in front of her wardrobe, tracing the lines in her palm nervously, trying to decide what to wear. It felt like she was somehow meeting the Doctor's mother for the first time, even though she'd known her her entire life. There was a certain expected nervousness to this dinner that she didn't enjoy. She settled on a modest green dress and pulled on thick, black tights, thinking perhaps her appearance as a purely sexless entity would earn her points in Tara's book. Tara was on an abstinence kick with the Doctor, not knowing that he'd lost his virginity a while ago. She'd apparently told him she worried he'd get "in over his head" if he had sex with Clara. Clara grinned then just thinking about the conversation, because Tara had no idea. If she knew they skipped Geography that much to have sex instead, she'd lose it.

Her heart was pounding the entire walk to Tara's. She took a deep breath and forced herself to lean forward and ring the doorbell, plastering a fake smile on her face. She was relieved when the Doctor pulled it open, looking fetching in his slightly-outdated jacket, a bowtie around his neck. She forgot about her discomfort and beamed genuinely.

"There's a real smile!" He said happily. He rocked a little nervously on his feet and then stepped to the side, gesturing for her to enter. Clara hadn't done so in three years deliberately, but this time, she ducked her head and walked into the front hall.

It was as drafty as ever. You couldn't tell from the outside, but Tara's house was the largest on the street. Inside it was huge and echoing, reminiscent to a house someone might live in if they inherited a lot of money they had no desire to do much with. There were no carpets, no rugs, and the walls were various shades of white and cream and grey. Clara was certain they still forwent trees every Christmas, something that had initially bothered her the first time she'd stepped into this house.

The Doctor was a little overeager as he helped her from her coat, accidentally yanking her dress off her shoulder. He blushed wildly and dropped her coat right to the floor as he hurriedly pulled the dress back up, pressing a brief, apologetic kiss to the fabric.

"Sorry," he apologized.

Clara had to diffuse the uneasy tension between them. She lowered her eyebrows coyly and caught his eye.

"Am I getting my birthday shag in your hall?" She joked.

He was scandalized. "Clara! Tara might hear you! Don't say the "s" word!"

She readjusted her dress fully and watched as he hung her coat nicely on the rack, his face burning. She decided this might be fun, after all.

"Which "S" word? Sex? Shag? Snog? Spunk?" She asked.

He yelped and reached over, settling a gentle hand over her lips. He looked around them nervously. "All of those! All of those words!"

She reached up and grabbed his wrist, lowering his hand from her mouth.

"What about 'wan—"

Clara's cheeky addition was muffled once more when they both heard Tara's loud footsteps. Clara looked up when Tara entered the room, still standing with her back practically against the wall and the Doctor's hand over her mouth. She nudged his leg with her knee and he cleared his throat, dropping his hand and nervously wiping his palm on his pants. He turned and smiled Tara.

"Hello, Tara." He said. "Uh…Clara's here."

Tara's eyes were icy blue. "Yes, I see that. Hello, Clara. Happy birthday."

Clara coughed lightly and shifted casually to the right, so the Doctor was no longer cornering her.

"Hi. Thanks for inviting me over." She said stiffly.

Tara smiled tightly. "Oh, it was my pleasure, dear."

Clara smiled forcefully in return. She was so relieved she could have kissed him when the Doctor took her hand in his, pulling her after him.

"Well, food's getting cold, Ten's getting irritable—time to eat!" He urged.

"I am not _irritable_," they heard Ten say crossly from the dining room. Clara shut her eyes briefly as the Doctor led her through the house. It was going to be a long meal. The things she did for love.

Ten looked half-unconscious over his empty plate. His second year at Oxford obviously wasn't going too well judging by his pallid features. He was grumpy until the food was served, not even faking politeness long enough to wish Clara happy birthday. She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him childishly, reminding herself that they were no longer kids. Ten had always taken a special enjoyment out of teasing her, perhaps because she'd always favored his brother over him. And Clara had suspicions that Tara had been actively poisoning him against her since they met, but that was nothing new.

Dinner was stiff and awkward to begin with, with hardly any words being spoken between the time they began serving and the time everyone had food on their plates. Finally, Clara couldn't take it anymore, and she decided to break the silence. She knew that dinners here were always quiet affairs (she'd learned that when the Doctor had a made a surprised comment about how talkative everyone was the very first time he had dinner at her house, when he was six), but she wasn't cut out for it. The awkwardness made her cringe.

"So. Ten. How's Oxford?" She asked.

He looked up at her. He almost looked like a drug addict with his pale skin and thin arms. The deep purple circles underneath his eyes did nothing but back up that image.

"It's Oxford. How's becoming a female James Bond going for you?"

She narrowed her eyes. In his depressive state, he hadn't given his teasing question enough sass, but she understood exactly what he'd meant.

"Fine." She said deliberately. "Beating all the boys, anyway."

His eyes shifted almost too casually between her and his brother.

"I'll bet you are." He muttered. The implications were clear and Clara glared fully at him, stabbing a piece of broccoli with more force than necessary, her eyes still on his. He got the threat, because he looked back down at his plate a moment later, but Clara was still peeved.

She inhaled slowly through her nose and turned to face her boyfriend, deciding to cut Ten some slack. He was obviously sleep deprived and whenever he was sleep deprived he reverted to treating her like a shitty elder brother might.

"How are your classes going?" Tara asked. The question was forced and overly-polite, but it was something.

"Great, actually. I'm really enjoying Computing and ICT." She said honestly.

Tara lifted her fork and waved it casually between her and the Doctor. "And Geography, how's that going? The Doctor hardly ever has anything to report about that class. You must not do much."

Clara disguised a startled jump by pretending to scratch her elbow as the Doctor's hand suddenly settled on her upper thigh. She understood the plea.

"Oh, we do plenty." She assured Tara. "But it's all discussion based. There aren't many exams or papers."

Tara nodded. "Ah, I see. You know, it's actually funny, because Gerald phoned today."

The Doctor's hand slid off her thigh. Clara dropped her hands to her lap and began fiddling with her fingers, working to keep her face blank.

"Oh? Did he?" She asked with mild interest. She glanced to her left and met the Doctor's eyes for a split second, seeing his panic. She knew there was only one reason why their Geography teacher would have made a home call.

"Yes. He was concerned about the Doctor. He said he hadn't been to class in a week." Tara informed her calmly.

Clara made a show of raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"Well, that must be a mistake. I can assure you the Doctor's been right beside me the entire hour of that class." She replied firmly.

It wasn't a lie, anyway. They just weren't in class, and he was more inside of her than beside her, but the meaning still stood.

Tara nodded. "Of course. That's what I thought. I told Gerald he must be mistaken, because our neighbor's in class with the Doctor, and she'd definitely know if he'd been out an entire week. Only…then he informed me that he also had _you _down as absent for the entire week, too." Tara laughed airily. "Well, the man is surely having difficulties keeping track of who's in their seat and who isn't!"

The Doctor and Clara met eyes guiltily.

"Okay, we get it." The Doctor finally said. "We've been skipping classes."

Tara gasped in exaggerated shock. "What?! No! I thought he had just gotten confused!"

Clara laughed suddenly, picturing their Geography teacher. "Well, if you knew him, you'd totally get why that's—" she fell silent, Tara's furious expression momentarily quieting her. "Um. Okay, so, we'll go to class from now on?"

Tara clasped her hands together tightly. "What are you two doing every single day during that hour? What's important enough to jeopardize your futures?"

The Doctor was terrible under pressure. He let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh, his legs bouncing nervously underneath the table.

"Nothing!" He said quickly. "Absolutely noth—studying. Yeah, we're studying together during that hour. In the library. You can ring and check and everything."

Tara set her hands on the tabletop and pushed herself up, making a move towards the kitchen for the phone.

"Okay, I'll give Sara a ring right—"

"Did I say studying?" The Doctor interrupted. He scratched the back of his neck. "Because I meant to say…shopping. We've been hitting the shops. I've got a shopping addiction. Sometimes we even go to shopaholics anonymous meetings, down at that Catholic church, you know the one with the, uh, the black iron fence over on Kensington High Street. Clara goes too. She's…got a bit of a gambling problem! Sometimes we hit the pubs, make a few bets, then we—"

Clara stamped hard on the Doctor's foot. He let out a yelp and looked at her with wide eyes.

"Ow!" He said indignantly.

"Not. Helping." She bit out. She resisted the urge to backhand his shoulder. "You're covering up with bigger lies, you idiot!"

He clamped his mouth shut quickly, probably replaying what he'd just said in his head.

"Clara doesn't strike me as a gambler." Ten spoke up. He cocked his head to the side and pointed thoughtfully at her. "A sex addict, though. Now that's something I might believe."

Clara bristled. "Okay, you know what, Turtle Ten? It's my birthday and I don't appreciate getting called a slag. And for your information, I am not a sex addict! Why are you even talking about that? You look like a turtle."

Ten set down his wine glass angrily. The red liquid splashed all over Tara's white, lace table cloth. "For the last time, I do _not look like a turtle_!"

The Doctor touched Clara's shoulder gently. "To be fair, Clara, he looks more like a tortoise."

Ten huffed. His face was turning a precarious shade of red. "I AM NOT—oh, fine. You want to play this game? We can play, Clara Oswald and Clara Oswald's third limb—that's you, Doctor. YOU TWO HAVE BEEN SHAGGING IN THE SUPPLY CUPBOARD EVERY SINGLE DAY DURING GEOGRAPHY!"

Clara gasped, feigning insult. She resisted the urge to correct him with: _actually, we usually use the faculty toilets, the supply cupboard was just a desperate last option. _The Doctor merely squeaked and flailed out in panic, accidentally knocking over his glass of water. It soaked the entire pan of turkey and vegetables that Tara had probably been working on for at least an hour. Immediately, Ten began scolding him.

"Great! That was Tara's dinner! You ruin everything, Doctor!"

The Doctor flung his hands up in the air, his face twisted with exasperation.

"I ruin everything?! _I _ruin everything?! You're the one who always has to have a go at my girlfriend just because you're jealous—"

"Oh ho ho! Jealous! I'm _jealous _now? Of what?! Your awkwardness? Your instability? Your freakish chin?!" Ten demanded furiously. Clara reached over and set a hesitant hand on the Doctor's shoulder, their yelling making her anxious. She didn't want them to say something they'd regret.

"No! Of the fact that I can keep friends better than you can! The fact that people don't leave me like they leave you! Where'd Donna go, Ten? Huh? Why'd she stop talking to you?"

Ten rose up from the table, his chest heaving. He looked liable to lunge across and punch his little brother.

"Fuck you! Don't talk about Donna or about things you don't understand! And I'll have you remember that Tara likes me best! And that Mum and Dad had no problem with me! They raised me until I was nine; it was raising you they obviously couldn't handle! Why do you think they shot themselves after _you_ turned six?" Ten spat nastily.

The Doctor rose from his chair too, his hands shaking. Clara was quick to rise as well, settling both hands on his arm, ready to yank him down if need be.

"You sodding—"

"STOP IT NOW!" Tara screamed suddenly.

Immediately, all three young adults fell still, looking up at Tara with wide eyes. Tara was glowering at them, her eyes flittering between each of their faces and her wine-stained tablecloth and ruined dinner. Ten and the Doctor sat down and Clara immediately sank back into her chair, intimidated by the hatred being broadcasted her way via Tara's expression. She folded her hands on her stomach and kept leaning to the side until she was against the Doctor's arm. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders bravely.

"Tara, it's not true!" The Doctor defended quickly. "How would it even be possible to shag in a supply cupboard? When you do…that…don't you have to lie down?"

He blinked at her innocently, like he was an eight year old with no knowledge of sex at all. Tara looked between both of her adopted sons, suddenly looking every bit her age. She lowered down into her chair slowly and then tiredly kneaded her forehead. Clara wanted to cry. All she'd wanted for her birthday was a quiet meal and a goodnight kiss from her boyfriend. She hadn't looked forward to it at all this year, just as she hated the year before, because her mother's absence was heavier on this day. So she'd hoped. That the Doctor could make it lighter. She should have known better than to have expected anything sensible.

"Why do you two have to fight so much?" Tara finally asked quietly. "Why do you always have to be up in arms?"

Clara wanted to know that, too. She watched them glance at each other uneasily and shrug their broad shoulders.

"Dunno." Ten murmured, his voice twisted with shame.

Tara looked up and met Ten's eyes. "It's time to grow up." She looked to the Doctor next. "Both of you."

Clara waited to get called out as well, but it never came. She felt oddly…joined with Tara in that moment. Just because she knew that they both hated the same thing: Ten and the Doctor arguing.

Tara didn't meet her eyes. She nodded her head Clara's way. "Apologize to her."

Ten seethed. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Clara.

"Tara, she called me a turtle." He whined.

Tara let her hand fall down onto the table top. "And you accused her of being a sex addict."

It was true, but Clara was so shocked to hear Tara sort of, kind of taking her side that she openly gaped at her. She quickly closed her lips and averted her eyes when Tara pinned a _yeah, so what? _look her way.

Ten was begrudging. "Sorry."

Tara looked to the Doctor, who immediately turned and looked behind him, like he might see someone else standing there. When he saw no one, he looked back to his adoptive mother.

"Me?" He asked in surprise. "No, I'm her boyfriend. She loves me. We don't hurt each other."

Tara glowered so intensely that even Ten pulled uncomfortably at his collar. The Doctor turned and took Clara's hands.

"I'm sorry for fighting with my brother at your birthday dinner." He apologized.

Clara cleared her throat uneasily. "It's okay. Both of you. I don't really like my birthday anymore anyway."

The Doctor frowned deeply at that. "What?" He demanded.

But Tara was speaking again, taking away the Doctor's window to interrogate Clara about that admission.

"Doctor, is what Ten said about skipping Geography true?" Tara asked him.

The Doctor flushed deeply, so deeply that he might as well have screamed yes.

"No way!" He said firmly. He shook his head. "Absolutely not. Not a chance. You think Clara would let me near her? Psh. I've got to beg her to hold her hand. Yeah. We don't—we just shop during that hour. Like I told you. And place bets in pubs."

Clara kicked him again from underneath the table. At that moment, she was sure she'd make his lies true. He wasn't going to be putting his hands on her for a long time if he didn't shut up about her "gambling addiction". If Tara told Dave that lie, he'd lose it.

Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the Doctor. She looked to Ten.

"Why would you even say that?" She asked curiously. The only way he could know would be if the Doctor told him, but Clara was certain he hadn't. Ten had been stressed out so much the past two years that the two pretty much did nothing but bicker.

Ten gave her a look of disgust. "I got into the city early and I went by to say hello to my brother. But he wasn't in class. I saw you two coming out of the supply cupboard, all disheveled. Your blouse was buttoned incorrectly. Then Tara said you two had been missing from class for an entire week during that hour and, well. I put two and two together."

Clara resisted the urge to groan in humiliation. She hadn't known her blouse was buttoned up wrong. That meant it stayed that way the entire day. Fucking hell.

"Maybe you saw our doppelgangers?" She suggested in annoyance.

He glared. "Really funny."

Tara was not amused. "Your relationship is unhealthy. I don't know what it's going to take to make you two see that. This is just…it's just some petty teenage infatuation. It's not worth risking your futures over, okay? I mean that as a caring adult."

Clara and the Doctor looked at each other incredulously, never having heard anyone accuse their relationship of being "petty teenage infatuation". They both didn't mean to, but immediately they were laughing, their faces creased with confusion.

"Petty teenage infatuation?" The Doctor demanded. "Is that what you think this is?"

Tara crossed her arms. "That's what I _know _this is."

Clara shook her head in disbelief. "The only doubts we've ever had about our love for each other have been when _you _made the Doctor leave me. For a year. The same year my mum died."

Tara laughed mockingly. "You keep using that word, dear, but I don't think you understand it. You're barely eighteen. What do you know of love? What do you know of sacrifice?"

It grew quiet quickly. Clara took a deep breath and looked down at her lap, fighting against all the words that were threatening to spill from her. She'd been afraid to come over here because she was afraid to hear Tara mention her mum, and in the end, she'd been the one to bring it up. And to hear Tara say that she didn't know what love was…she was beginning to feel ill.

"Tara." The Doctor objected gently. His voice was soft, the tone he took whenever he realized something had just hurt Clara.

"I won't apologize for telling the truth." Tara said stubbornly. "You're too into this relationship, this _ephemeral _relationship. You're young. Everything you have now, you'll lose sometime soon. Stop putting so much of yourselves into this."

To a girl who had just lost her mother and was relying solely on her boyfriend, that was a terrifying thing to hear. Your mother was supposed to be the one you could always count on, but suddenly she was gone, and all Clara had left to count on was the Doctor. And now she was being told she couldn't even count on that?

She recognized the slow narrowing of her throat around the same time the Doctor extended a hand towards her in concern. She shifted slightly to her left, just out of his reach.

"I think I want to go home now." She admitted. But then she remembered that she really didn't have a home anymore, not really. She'd never have a home ever again because her mother was gone.

When she rose to her feet, she caught a brief glance of Tara's face, and she was surprised to see the woman looked slightly guilty.

"No, don't go." Tara said, with some frustration. "I'm just trying to help. Stay for cake. The Doctor wrapped your present this morning special."

Clara shook her head and murmured something about being tired, but she paused as she started to turn around, her words crawling up her throat. She met Tara's eyes.

"I know I'm eighteen." She began. "But I know what love feels like. And sacrifice. Love was when I held my mum's hand as she died. It was not a nice death, if deaths could even be nice. She struggled, but she didn't want me to go because she was scared, and she just kept saying '_you're my baby, I want my baby with me_', so I stayed. And I watched her die. I saw it, you know? I saw when my own mum—when she stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Her hand, it went slack in mine. Just limp. And I knew then that she was gone forever, and I wanted to scream, because I realized that it was too late, that I would never be able to hug her again. That I'd never be able to feel her hand in mine." Clara reached up and touched her stinging eyes, relieved to feel there were no tears. She laughed shakily, trying to write off her own sorrow, but the words kept coming. "Um, I remembered later that I'd forgotten to tell her about a grade I'd gotten on an essay—it was a perfect score. She helped me outline it and plan for it and everything. With her diagnosis, it'd slipped my mind, but I realized on the drive home that I would _never _be able to tell her. That she'd _never _know. And then I realized that she'd never know anything about me ever again—not what I got on my A-levels, not where I went to university, not what I studied. And my dad had to pull over onto the side of the road and I got sick all over the car mat. Losing my mum was sacrifice. I knew that. I felt it every day and I still do. And so, I guess what I want you to know, is that I would watch the Doctor die and I would hold his hand and I would vomit all over the car if I realized I couldn't ever talk to him again. I love him and he knows that and it's the only thing I can still do right, it's the only thing I have, so it really tears me apart when you say it isn't real. Or that it won't last. Because it is literally all I have and he is the only thing that pulled me through losing my mum. He's everything to me."

She was already to the front door, her arms wrapped shakily around herself and her chest tight, when she heard Tara's quick footsteps behind her.

"Clara." She called.

Clara ignored her, struggling to pull her coat off the rack. The Doctor had somehow gotten it tangled with his.

"Don't go. I'm sorry." Tara told her. Clara stopped moving, those two words foreign to her. She didn't look to Tara, but she didn't continue trying to get her coat either.

"I sometimes forget that your mum died." She admitted.

Clara closed her eyes momentarily, those words cutting into her.

"Must be nice." She said thickly.

She heard Tara take a few more steps towards her.

"I didn't mean to push you." She continued. "I just think you're very dangerous for my son. And not really right for him."

Clara wasn't sure what to say to that. If she wasn't right for the Doctor, who on earth would be? They'd been two parts of the same whole for as long as she could remember.

"Well, I'm going. Maybe after my freak out in there he'll reconsider your pleas to break things off with me."

Clara finally freed her coat and shrugged it on, digging through her pockets for her gloves.

Tara snorted. "Oh please. I've been trying to get him to break things off with you for years. You know, I purposefully didn't tell him about your mum while he was away, and I made Ten promise not to tell him either. I didn't want you to suffer. But I wanted to help you learn how to cope without him."

Clara turned and looked Tara dead in the eye, those words both infuriating and paining her.

"You thought you'd help me learn how to cope without him by leaving me alone when my own mother died? On the most challenging day of my entire _life_?" She breathed disbelievingly. She looked away from Tara, her vision suddenly going blurry. That knowledge made her boil, even though she'd always known it deep down. "I wanted to kill myself. You know that, right? I wrote to him a lot in the beginning—but then the school sent my letters back. Said I wasn't on his "approved contact list". I tried to call after my mum died because I was desperate, but of course they wouldn't transfer it to him. My emergency wasn't a big enough emergency for them. And then I finally get a letter from him. Finally. A week after my mum's been dead. And he acts like nothing's happened and puts this bloody P.S. about how he misses my mother's soufflés. I'd been desperate to talk to him for months. Months. And I finally hear from him, and it's just…nothing. And I couldn't even contact him back. I cried for three days straight and my dad didn't even notice and I can't believe I'm telling you this shit. You're just so selfish, Tara. I don't even think you realize how selfish you are. But you hurt me more than anyone else ever has, and now I find out that most of that hurt was deliberate. I don't think we'll ever be okay. I don't think I'll ever feel anything but resentment for you."

Tara crossed her arms tightly again, her lips pressing into a firm line.

"I'm sorry that you were hurting. But you don't see how vain you are, Clara. You're mad at me for not sending the Doctor into a tizzy over you. Do you hear how egotistical that is? That you expected him to drop his entire life to talk to you, to comfort you? The world doesn't revolve around you. Things happen. Bad things happen. But you aren't allowed to drag the Doctor, my _son, _down with you. He's had enough misfortune already without you adding yours."

Clara shook her head and turned to the door.

"I didn't want his suffering. I just wanted him to be there for me. That's all." Clara said. She hadn't even noticed the Doctor enter until he was by her side, his hands resting on her shoulders. He stepped in front of her and blocked Tara from her view, his hands quick to cradle her face. Clara closed her eyes because she didn't want to look at him. She hadn't wanted him to hear any of that. She hadn't wanted to say any of it. But Tara had worn her down.

"I've got your present. Let's go." He whispered gently. He lowered his hands and interlocked their fingers, giving her a light tug towards the door.

"In this moment, I hate you." He admitted to Tara. Clara didn't turn to see the way those words affected the woman. She just leaned against the Doctor's side and reveled in the sting of the cold air against her damp face.

Clara and the Doctor walked hand in hand in the cold for a while, until they made it to the playground they played at as children. They sat side by side on the swings, their feet dragging against the dirt.

"Are you okay?" The Doctor asked her.

Clara smiled and shrugged. "Yeah. I'm okay. I just fucking hate your bitchy mum."

The Doctor knocked his swing gently into hers.

"There's my sassy Clara." He said affectionately.

They swung together in silence, both thinking about all that had been said that night. She supposed it was really her fault. She should have listened to her instincts and not gone.

"The cake was rubbish anyway." The Doctor finally said. "I didn't want to tell you, but I tried to bake it myself. Big mistake."

Clara grinned and looked up at him, feeling her heart lighten considerably at his embarrassed expression.

"Did you burn it?" She surmised.

He buried his face in his hands momentarily. "God, I cremated it. I feel the need to sprinkle the ashes someplace nice."

Clara laughed and peered at him for a moment longer than necessary, her heart swelling.

"I do love you like that. Like I said." She admitted.

He looked at her softly. "I know you do. And I love you even more."

She smiled wider at that. Tara could think and say what she wanted, but Clara knew now. As long as they loved each other, nothing was temporary.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" He asked her suddenly. "About not liking your birthday?"

Clara grimaced. "I hate it. I used to like it…but I don't anymore."

He frowned. "Well I love it. Because if you wouldn't have been born, my life would be terrible. It'd be drafty like Tara's house. This day is special because it's the day that changed my life."

She knocked her swing into his this time.

"You're cheesy." She complained.

He grinned. "If you think this is cheesy, just wait until you open your gift."

She held her hand out jokingly, wiggling her fingers. "Let's see then."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat box, wrapped a little messily with a bow wrapped around. He set it into Clara's palm and Clara smiled affectionately at the giraffe wrapping paper. Where on earth had he found _that_?

"Fine wrapping job, sir." She told him. He beamed and puffed his chest out proudly.

She unwrapped it carefully, sensitive to the fact that the Doctor spent a long time on it. When she finally had the paper off, she was left staring at a packaged box, reading: _Key Casting Kit_. She noticed a second later that he'd tapped a necklace to the top of the box, almost as an afterthought. It had a delicate silver chain and two gemstone hearts, one topaz for her birth month and one turquoise for the Doctor's. She wasn't sure what to address first, and her heart was somewhere in her throat, and the Doctor was smiling at her so sheepishly when she looked up that it made her beam.

"I, uh, didn't know where I'd be living next year. So I figured I'd get the kit, and then once I had a key, I could make you a copy." He explained, his eyes trained on his knees almost in embarrassment. "We'd still have to get it coated in brass, but I figured we could cast it together. Might be fun."

Clara turned the package over in her lap and nodded, her smile still in place.

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot. And this necklace is beautiful."

He looked up at her, pleased.

"Really? The lady at the shop said two hearts was a little weird. She tried to sell me this diamond, single-hearted ordeal, but I told her no, I said that two hearts was double the love, and then she let me design this. And gave me a discount! Probably just to get me out quicker, but still."

Clara fastened the necklace around her neck quickly, to keep it safe, and then grabbed the ropes to the Doctor's swing, twisting it so he was facing her. She kissed him deeply, her fingers weaving into his hair and dragging along his scalp, and it was then that she thought she might start looking forward to her birthdays again. When she parted their lips, the Doctor was overjoyed and flushed.

"Thank you." She told him sincerely. "I love it all. You're the best boyfriend anyone could ever have and an even better friend."

He shrugged and smiled modestly. "I'm glad you like it. But you know, I've just realized that I haven't given you your birthday shag."

Clara felt her skin tingle at those words, like her body was already beginning to anticipate it. She grinned at him coyly.

"Is that right? Well, you might have to postpone that, because there's no way Tara's going to let me back into her house ever again, and my dad's home all night. We've no where to go."

The Doctor looked at her mischievously. She narrowed her eyes.

"What?" She asked carefully. She looked around them suspiciously. "We're not doing it here, if that's what you're implying. Kids play here."

His face creased with disgust. "No! Not here. No, no, no. But I do know of somewhere."

"Where?" She pressed.

He knocked his swing into hers again, but with a little too much gusto. She went crashing into the side of the swingset, knocking her hip painfully into the metal. She winced and he jumped up from the swing, hurrying to her aid. After a few kisses to her hipbone and ample apologies, he looked back up at her.

"The garage." He said. "It's far from Tara's bedroom. She won't even know if we're quiet."

Clara narrowed her eyes. "I don't know. What if she walks in on us?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Honestly? Nothing worse could be said tonight than what already has been. It's all out there. We all hate each other right now. So what do we have to lose?"

She supposed he had a point there. She stared at him and contemplated it, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Finally she let out a resigned breath and stood.

"Okay. But starting soon we've got to calm it down. People are getting suspicious."

He laughed loudly at that. "You're ridiculous. We don't _have _to! It's a birthday shag. Completely optional. For your pleasure only."

She looked at him. "I'm not saying I don't want to. Trust me. I'm just saying we need to cool it down…starting next week. Or actually, let's start with the new year. That makes more sense."

He gave her a knowing look and nodded in agreement. "Yes, the new year. Perfect timing. Maybe by then we'll get sick of seeing each other naked."

They locked eyes for a few moments and then burst into laughter. As if that would ever happen.

The Doctor stood up and held out his hand.

"Come on, birthday girl. You haven't been loved enough today."

She stood up and ignored the brief sting of pain that statement caused. She gave his hand a squeeze when she slipped her fingers between his.

"So what? It's your job to fix that? You're responsible for making sure my 'love quota' gets filled?" She teased.

He swung their hands between them as they walked. When Clara looked up at him, she saw he was smiling contently.

"Precisely." He said. "That's my job and it'll be my job until I die. And today, you've not been treated the way you should have, so I'm going to make it all right."

Clara teased him to hide the way his words made her heart swell almost painfully with love.

"Bit cocky there, don't you think?" She joked.

He glanced down at her and grinned. "Nope."

She had to look away to gain the courage to ask the question that was suddenly weighing on her mind.

"And what about when we're at separate universities? How are you going to fill my love quota then?" She asked.

The Doctor looked at the key casting kit she was carrying in her other hand. She smiled so hard her face ached from the strain of it, because she understood.

"I'm always watching your love quota, too." She admitted. "Maybe one day we'll be together all day and all night, and then no one can mess with those quotas at all. There will be no parents to shit all over our relationship and no brothers to annoy you and no teachers to demand things. Just us."

He beamed. "That's what I hope for, Clara. That's the dream."

Despite the uncomfortable location, it was the best sex they'd had to date. Clara walked home with a smile, and when her father asked her how her birthday was, she was honest.

"I'm glad to be alive." She told him.

She trudged up the stairs and set the key casting kit carefully on the desk. She sat on the edge of the bed and touched her necklace, her lips still turned up in a smile. She could see the full moon from her window, and even though she'd long given up on believing in any sort of afterlife, she could have sworn she felt her mother out there somewhere.

"I'm okay. I'm not scared anymore." She whispered, scarcely loud enough for even herself to hear. She didn't want to be caught talking to her dead mother, but some things had to be said, even if no one was there to hear them. Maybe especially then. "I hope you're okay too. Thanks for having me, Mum."


	19. A Kindness and a Cruelty

_hectic days, violent crimes, and common ground_

"I understand that, Mrs. Smith, but our records indicate that you've placed an order monthly for the past two years—"

"GET OFF MY HEAD! GET OFF MY HEAD! THAT HURTS! MUMMY, POPPY IS ON MY HEAD!"

"—and seeing as though neither you nor your husband have said anything about the orders until today, two years—"

"OW! THAT'S MY EYEBALLS! MY VERY IMPORTANT EYEBALLS! MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY _MUMMY_!"

Clara let the bowl clatter down onto the stovetop, sending cold soup flying up into her face and on the underside of the extractor hood. Her hands were quivering and she had to lower the phone and take a deep breath or she was certain she'd go mad. She propped the phone between her ear and shoulder and reached up with a shaking hand and wiped the soup off her face with the back of it, her eyes squeezed shut. She lifted the phone back up to her ear a moment later.

"Could you just…hang on? For one moment?" She asked. She didn't give the man a chance to respond. She set the phone down on the counter and waited until she was out of the kitchen to begin screaming.

"PENELOPE ROSE, GET YOUR LITTLE FEET OFF YOUR BROTHER'S FACE RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT OR I SWEAR-!" She screamed.

There was a pause.

"SWEAR WHAT?" Poppy yelled back.

Clara gritted her teeth and seethed, climbing the stairs two at a time. She stepped into Miles' bedroom and became witness to the sight of her three-year-old standing directly on the side of her son's head. His little cheek was pressed flat against the floor and his eyes were bulging with panic. Poppy looked up innocently.

"I have to do this." She told her mummy seriously.

Clara took another deep breath and crossed the room quickly, hooking her hands underneath the three-year-old's armpits and heaving her off Miles. She carried her over and tossed her rather unceremoniously onto Miles' bed, turning immediately to help the five-year -old up off the carpet. He stumbled once he stood, his small hands rising to hold his head.

"Whoa," he said softly. He took a few weaving steps toward Clara. "Everything's zoomin'."

"Okay, come here." Clara urged. She crossed the space between them and kneeled down, gently inspecting his face. She prodded at his temple and stared hard in his eyes, making sure he seemed completely conscious. Poppy was an itty thing, but he'd still had weight directly on his cranium.

"Am I sick?" Miles asked her nervously.

Clara lowered her hands and smiled at him reassuringly.

"No, you're fine." She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, giving his short hair a ruffle, and then she turned and looked at her daughter.

"What in the world, Poppy?" She demanded. "You could have hurt him!"

Poppy parted her lips with a huff, but Clara remembered with a panicked squeeze to her heart that she'd left the finance man on the phone. She pointed sternly at the girl.

"We'll talk about this when I get back. Prepare your statement."

She ran full-speed back to the kitchen, lifting the phone back up to her ear immediately.

"I'm back," she said, a bit out of breath, but present.

For a second she feared he'd hung up, but he sighed a moment later.

"What is it you want from me, Mrs. Smith?" He asked tiredly.

Clara carried the bowl to the sink, beginning the process of cleaning up the mess she'd made in her frustration. She spoke slowly and deliberately.

"I would like you to get someone to look into this. My husband and I are out five thousand pounds. We've never even _heard _of this gallery, much less ordered rare paintings. Do whatever you need to do to verify that. We really haven't made those reoccurring orders."

She could hear the sound of him typing something up in the background and she hoped it was a note to continue looking into the matter.

"All right. We'll continue to look into it. But Mrs. Smith? You two need to be more careful with your credit cards."

Clara reached up to knead her forehead, forgetting for a moment that she had the wet rag in her hand that she had been using to mop up the soup on the stovetop. She twisted her mouth with disgust and dropped the rag to the stove, moving her hand back to her temple.

"I appreciate the tip, but we've got five kids. It's amazing that we haven't had one of them accidentally sell our house out from underneath us." She admitted. She hoped her voice didn't give away how overwhelmed she was.

"Right, well— and then you should— possibly look into—"

Clara frowned.

"Hang on, you're breaking up. There's a call on the other line." She pulled the phone back from her face and glanced at the screen. Royal London Hospital?

She got the automatic prickly feeling in her skin that she got whenever the hospital or police randomly rang. She was distracted when she spoke next.

"Thanks for the help, I've got to go." She said quickly. She switched calls, pulling the phone back to her ear as she grabbed the rag again. She halfheartedly scrubbed at the stovetop as she greeted whoever was on the other end.

"Mrs. Oswald-Smith?" Someone asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Finally someone gets it right," she murmured. "Yes?"

The woman's voice was brisk. "I'm the patient's advocate at Royal London Hospital. Your husband, a Mr. John Smith, has just been admitted to the trauma ward. We found your number in his phone as one of the ICE contacts."

Clara didn't realize she was digging her nails into her palm until she felt the pain finally register. She swallowed drily and turned, pacing over to the kitchen door, her hand squeezing the phone tightly. She was certain her heart had stopped for a moment, and she was having difficulty processing those words.

"He's…is he okay? What happened?" She asked. She realized she'd lowered her voice to a whisper, sensitive to the fact that Lottie and Ellabell were just down the hallway. Miles and Poppy might have been too young to understand her terrified tone, but the older two weren't.

"There was a situation near Whitechapel. A man pulled a knife on another victim and your husband. He's in surgery as we speak and—"

"GIRLS, GET YOUR SHOES!" Clara yelled towards the girls' room. She pressed her hand to her face, suddenly feeling nauseated and faint. She took a shallow breath.

"What were his injuries?" She asked. Her hands shook so badly as she tried to grab her coat off the back of the chair that she gave up. She exited the kitchen, leaving her coat draped over the chair, and entered the hall. She still didn't see Lottie or Ellie.

"Girls, please!" She called again.

"I'm afraid it's just my job to inform his next of kin." The woman said curtly.

Clara could feel her chest tightening. Her eyes stung with oncoming tears, but she couldn't let her children see that. She didn't want to terrify them, even though she felt scared enough to fall to her knees.

She hung up the phone with weak hands, and for a moment, all she could do was stand there and stare at his shoes that he'd left in the middle of the hall. She pressed the back of her hand over her mouth and breathed slowly through her nose, fighting against her sickness, and then she hurried up the stairs to the older girls' room. She opened it without knocking and looked at Lottie and Ellie, sitting side by side on Lottie's bed, their eyes glued to Lottie's laptop screen.

"We've got to go." She told them. "Get your shoes. Lottie, please call Bristol. Tell him we're picking him up in five minutes."

Lottie ripped the earphones out of her ears and frowned.

"Mum, what's wrong?" She asked.

Clara was already walking from the room.

"Please just do what I asked." She told them.

She walked to the opposite end of the hallway and walked in, picking a still-sheepish Poppy up into her arms and grabbing Miles' hand.

"We've got to go." She told them. She glanced down at Miles' empty hands and then looked to Poppy's, turning and searching the room afterwards. "Where's BonBon and Daisy?"

"Miles hided them!" Poppy told her mum. "That's why I smushed him!"

Clara could feel the first tears building behind her eyelids, compelled by her paralyzing fear. But she couldn't afford to freeze up now; she had an injured husband and five kids and she had to keep moving, had to find a way to compartmentalize her worry and pain enough to keep going. She turned her head in the opposite direction from Poppy and Miles, hoping the two wouldn't see her unhappiness.

"Miles, where are they? Tell me now." She said seriously.

Miles let go of her hand immediately and hurried over to his bed, lifting his pillow to reveal his soufflé-patterned blanket and Poppy's stuffed snowman.

"Are we taking them with us?" He asked his mother curiously. "I thought they stayed at home. They are our home-mates now."

Clara grabbed Daisy from his hands when he crossed over to her and passed it to Poppy, who gave a cry of elated joy and pressed her face into its snowy head. She took Miles' hand again and pulled them through the door, checking quickly to make sure Miles at least had his shoes on.

"We're taking them with us." Clara told Miles, but she didn't offer any reasons as to why. The truth was that she thought they'd need the comforting, but she didn't want them to know that.

Poppy was shoeless, so she grabbed a pair of her little boots with the same hand she picked up her handbag with. Ellie and Lottie were already waiting in front of the door, dressed and nervous.

"We told Bristol." Lottie informed Clara.

Clara set a brief hand on the top of her head. "Thank you."

She led her children after her, so distracted she barely remembered to lock the door. She buckled Poppy up and made sure Miles was buckled too, and then she got into the driver's seat. She hadn't realized how quickly she was driving until they were stopping in front of Bristol's friend's house and Clara realized it'd only taken them three minutes to get there.

"Ellie, go up and get him." She ordered.

Ellabell didn't object. She slid from the car and ran full-speed to the front door, ringing it a couple of times. Bristol was out after only one ring, his eyebrows furrowed. He followed his sister to the car and climbed in.

"What's wrong?" Bristol asked his mother. His voice was higher than normal from his panic.

Clara breathed deeply for a few moments until she was sure she had her panic under control.

"Daddy's hurt." She finally told them. "He's in hospital."

Ellabell and Bristol immediately began asking panicked questions that collided and crashed, leaving Clara no time to offer the few answers she had. When she glanced briefly back, she saw that Lottie was frowning deeply, her dark eyes full of horror. Poppy and Miles were looking curiously at their elder siblings, their tiny mouths pulled down in identical frowns.

"How'd he get hurt?" Miles asked. It was his question that got through the chaos, because it was soft and so unlike every other thing being uttered.

Clara lied, because she didn't want to scare them. She'd always wanted to be the kind of mum who never lied to her kids, but she supposed she'd never imagined she'd be put in a position where lying was the responsible option.

"He fell down. He'll be okay." She said. "We're going to go to the hospital, and then I'm going to see if Amy or Rose can come get you lot."

Lottie was adamant. "No way, Mum! I'm staying with you. I'm eleven!"

Ellabell's voice was outraged. "If Lottie stays, I'm staying! She's only two years older than me!"

Bristol stamped his feet. "And Ellabell's only a year older than me! So we're all going except the babies!"

Poppy began wailing. "No! I want Daddy! I want my daddy! D-Daddy!"

Poppy's tears set Miles off. "Why is Daddy hurt? I don't wanna go with Amy or Rose!"

Soon there was a cacophony of outraged objections and tears. Clara tried to get them to calm down by reasoning calmly, but they only complained louder, and then she felt all her control slipping. Her five children grew silent almost immediately when she began sobbing, their mouths open and eyes wide with surprise.

She angrily wiped at her cheeks, frustrated with herself and her weakness. She slammed her fist against the steering wheel, her heart drawn tight. She felt it liable to snap at any moment.

"Enough!" She shrieked. She saw Miles flinch from the corner of her eye, his cheeks flushed from his tears and his expression horrified at the sight in front of him. She had to look away to continue. "I know you're scared. I know. I'm so scared, too. And I know you want to help Daddy and be with him. But the only way that's going to happen is if you trust me, okay? They won't let more than one person back there when he's out of surgery and I can't leave you five in the waiting room alone. I don't want you sleeping in chairs all night long. And there's no food there and not many toilets and it's not any place for kids! It's scary and sad and I want you somewhere safe. So I don't want to hear anymore complaining, okay? Do you want me to call Amy and Rory or Rose and Ten?"

Bristol was teary. "I want Grandpa."

Lottie crossed her arms unhappily. "And I want Charlotte."

Clara sighed impatiently. "Lottie, Charlotte's in Edinburgh. We've talked about this."

Poppy was insistent once she realized what everyone was talking about. She kicked the back of Clara's seat. "No! No! I want Maime and Worry! I want Worry!"

Ellabell started crying. "Mum, I want Uncle Ten! I don't want to drive to Blackpool! I don't want to be far from Daddy!"

"Ellie, we aren't going to Blackpool," Clara soothed her.

Bristol groaned angrily. "But I'm scared! I want Grandpa!"

"Well we aren't going to see Grandpa!" Clara snapped. She felt guilty when she saw the tears forming in Bristol's eyes. She cursed underneath her breath and took a moment to deep breathe, trying to remind herself that her children didn't deserve to be snapped at. This wasn't their fault. She looked to Miles in the rearview mirror, who was watching his siblings quietly, thoughtfully.

"Miles, love, who do _you _want to go with?" Clara asked him gently.

He contemplated that question for a moment, ignoring his siblings' hissed coercions. He met his mother's eyes in the rearview mirror, and Clara was startled to see his were glistening with tears.

"I want to go with _you_." He whispered.

Clara felt very much like bashing her own head into the steering wheel. She forced herself to be patient.

"I know you do, but you can't right now. I'll get you as soon as I can, okay? Between Rose and Ten and Amy and Rory, who do you want to stay with?" She asked.

"Why does _he _get to decide—"

"Because he is not giving me backchat!" Clara said. Bristol crossed his arms and pouted, sinking down so far that the seatbelt dug into his neck.

Miles sniffed. "Rory and Amy."

Clara nodded, ignoring Ellabell's cries of protest.

"Okay. That's settled and I don't want to hear anything else about it." She said.

It was difficult to hear Rory and Amy on the phone, with Poppy's excited chorus of _Yay Worry! Yay Maime! Yay Worry and Maime! _And Ellabell's crying and Bristol's mumbling about his grandfather and Lottie's huffing in the background. Clara obviously couldn't tell them the bit about the stabbing with the kids in the car, but Amy seemed to realize it was bad. She left for the hospital immediately so she'd be there right when Clara arrived.

Clara was honestly surprised she didn't hit anyone on her race to the hospital. Getting the kids out of the car and into the hospital was all a blur to her. She just knew she had Poppy on her hip and Bristol's hand in hers. She saw Lottie take Miles' hand in the lift when she saw he was shaking. Ellabell even took Lottie's hand, her light eyes filled with so much fear that Clara found her own knees quaking. She knew they must have been so confused. She wished she had the reassuring words they needed, but she didn't want to make any promises she couldn't keep.

Amy was already waiting in the waiting room for them, pale and clinging to Rory's arm. Poppy squirmed in Clara's arms and she took off towards Rory right when Clara set her on the floor. She watched Rory accept Poppy's kiss and swing her around, glad that Miles had picked them. She knew Ten and Rose would protect her kids with their lives, but there was something about Rory and Amy that made her feel beyond secure. She didn't have to worry about them at all when they were in the Williams's hands. She knew that they—Rory especially—would never, ever let her children get hurt or even be sad. After suffering multiple miscarriages, the two had taken to their roles as godparents with a bittersweet zeal. They treated those five like their own, and Clara wanted them to be someplace where they were treated like they belonged.

She kissed each of her children and gave them tight hugs, promising them that she'd see them soon. She shared a tense, worried hand-squeeze with Amy and thanked both her and Rory. Rory hugged her tightly before they left, Poppy now clinging to his leg. Clara breathed in the scent of his and Amy's laundry detergent and tried to maintain her composure. Being in the trauma ward waiting room made it all very real. Her knees were shaking and so was her strength.

"It'll be okay." Rory promised her. "He's tough. He's the toughest of all. And I'll watch after your babies."

Clara's vision was swimming when she straightened. She met his eyes.

"Thank you so much, Rory." She said sincerely.

He smiled. "I'm a godfather. It's my job."

Once they left, she ached. She sat down in a chair and shivered, her soul compressed with panic. She asked every nurse she saw about updates on her husband, but they all told her the same thing. He was in surgery and they'd let her know more as soon as they did. After sitting alone in the waiting room for a couple of minutes, she knew what she had to do, but she didn't want to do it. She stared at her phone for a few long seconds before realizing that she'd rather be insulted until she cried than sit here alone. That thought was terrifying.

Tara picked up on the very first ring, probably knowing that if Clara was phoning her, something was wrong.

"Hello?"

Clara cleared her throat against the sudden threat of tears. "Tara, something's happened."

She could tell Tara had risen. "What? What's wrong? Is it one of the kids?"

Clara shook her head and gripped the phone tighter. "No, it's the Doctor." She took a shuddering breath and shut her eyes against the pain those words caused. "God, Tara, it's the Doctor."

"Where are you?" Tara asked immediately.

"Royal London. Trauma ward. Will you come?" She asked. She realized how vulnerable the question sounded, but she didn't care.

"Of course. Of course I will. I'm leaving now." Tara reassured her. Her normally stiff words were pliable with anxiety. "What happened?"

Clara sniffed and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. They said there was a stabbing and that he's in surgery and that's literally all they'll tell me. He just ran to the market to get some eggs. I don't understand what's going on."

"We'll figure it out." Tara said firmly. "Where are the kids? Are they there with you?"

Clara pressed her fingers over her stinging eyes. "No, Rory and Amy came and got them."

"Good. Have you rung Ten?" She asked.

"Not yet. I was going to next." Clara said, but her voice was teetering and she was dangerously close to tears. All she knew was that she couldn't lose the Doctor. She _couldn't. _Even just the thought sickened her to the point of devastation.

Tara was oddly gentle when she spoke next. Under any other circumstance, Clara might have read it as condescension, but as of late she was too scared to even move. "I'll phone him. Ring your dad. I think it'd do you some good to talk to him."

Normally she'd try and find some hidden insult in that statement, but Clara was too tired and too afraid, and truthfully, she knew that Tara was right.

"Thanks. I will." She said thickly.

She walked up to the nurse's desk while it rang and tried once more to get some answers, but it was fruitless.

"Clara!" Her dad greeted. "What are you and yours up to?"

Clara's throat was thick. "Something's happened."

Her dad was immediately exasperated. He let out a long sigh. "Dear God. Let's see…it's at least two years since you've had Poppy…please don't tell me you're pregnant _again_? Poppy was an accident, okay, I get that. But this is just getting ridiculous. This is what I get for raising you Catholic. I'll have to take out a loan just to afford Christmas gifts for everyone!"

Clara resisted the urge to groan impatiently. "No, I'm not—the Doctor got a vasectomy!" She reminded him. Her tone was nearing hysteria but she couldn't do much for it. She frowned so deeply she felt her mouth begin to quiver. "The Doctor's in surgery and they won't tell me what's going on and I'm really…Dad, they said he was stabbed. Who would stab him? Why would they? He doesn't—he's the best, you know? He really, really is. And he just helps people. I'm so scared and I just keep thinking about what might happen if he—"

Clara stopped abruptly because she couldn't stop her tears. She kept her cries muffled into her pullover sleeve, her heart heavier than it had ever been. She'd never had anything like this happen to the Doctor. She'd never had to sit in a waiting room, worried he might not make it through. The riskiest thing that had happened to him in their long marriage was the time he got pneumonia, but he was never at risk of dying, and even then Clara was an anxious wreck. It was in this moment that she realized once more just how completely and totally she needed him.

"_Stabbed_?!" Her dad exclaimed. "Clara, did you say stabbed?! Christ! Where are you right now? Where are the kids?"

She sat back down in the chair and ran her hand through her hair. She searched through her handbag and pockets for some tissues, sniffing against her insistently runny nose. She located a few in the front pouch and took a second to wipe her nose, her eyes still streaming. She was cold and scared and she wasn't sure if she wanted to punch people until they gave her the answers she needed or sob.

"They're with Amy and Rory. I'm at the hospital. Tara's coming." She pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes and took a shuddering breath. "Dad, I wish you were here."

There was a pause, and then she could hear a flurry of activity on the other end.

"I will be there. Just give me a couple hours." He promised.

Clara wanted that more than anything, but she couldn't let her sixty-plus year old father travel four hours alone when they didn't even know what was going on.

"It's okay. Don't come all the way to London." She found the strength to say. "I'll keep you posted."

She heard the distinct squeak of his front door in the background.

"I'm coming there, Clara. Don't even try." He told her gently. "I'll see you soon. Be brave."

Clara couldn't help but laugh weakly at that.

"Always am." She said. She meant it a bit jokingly, but her dad merely made a sound of agreement.

She knew that there were other people she should have contacted, but she was sick of telling people what she knew, sick of having them throw hysteric questions at her that she didn't have the answers to either. She crossed back up to the nurses' desk a few moments after hanging up with her father.

The woman spared her a brief glance and then sighed in annoyance.

"Miss, I told you, he's still in surgery. We're doing all we can."

Clara nodded and set her hands on top of the counter, hoping that would alleviate the quivering.

"I know you are. I just…please. I just need to know where he was stabbed. I need to know how severe this is. I'm—that's my husband. We've been married for nineteen years."

The woman looked back up, her hand pausing midair in the process of turning a page in a thick file. She studied Clara's face for a tense moment until gradually her eyes began softening, and then she closed the file and leaned forward.

"I wasn't on call when he came through A&E. But I do know someone who was." She finally said. "I can find out for you."

Clara let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." She whispered.

The woman nodded and rose from the desk, and it was only the promise of answers that got Clara back into her seat. She'd only been sitting for a couple of minutes when she heard the distinct sound of Tara's favorite heels against the tiled floor. Clara turned and waved to get her attention, realizing that this was probably the only time in her entire life she'd feel genuine relief to see Tara's face.

"Anything new?" Tara asked, as soon as she sat beside her son's wife.

Clara realized she'd been chewing on her thumbnail when she tasted blood. That'd been a bad habit she hadn't done since university. She thought about sitting on her hands, but she figured if there was ever a day where she was allowed a little bad habit, it was today. She continued gnawing and spoke around it.

"No. I got a nurse to go find some more out, though. She should be coming back soon." She told Tara.

The two women sat in tense, nervous silence. Tara was gripping her handbag tightly in her lap, her face pale and her eyes flittering about the room almost in a panic. Her spine was tense. Clara didn't know why she did it, but she found herself reaching over with the hand not currently getting bitten and setting it lightly on Tara's forearm. The woman turned and looked at her in surprise, and Clara had to force herself not to retreat. Today, they were on the same side. Today, nothing mattered except the Doctor being okay.

"He'll be okay. He has to be." She told Tara. And it was true. It had to be true because he had six people relying on him. People that important couldn't just die. They couldn't. She couldn't accept that and she wouldn't either.

Tara offered her a small, slightly-uncomfortable smile.

"You spend so much time mothering that I think you forget to turn it off." Tara said, but Clara knew it wasn't mean-spirited. Clara shrugged.

"We could all stand being mothered a bit, couldn't we?" She shot back.

Tara looked forward, her eyes more vulnerable than Clara had ever seen. She stared at the floor, but it was such a focused stare that Clara was sure she was seeing something that she couldn't for a moment.

"Yeah." Tara finally said. "We could."

There was something unspoken in the way Tara's eyes looked so faraway, something that hinted at a past Clara had no knowledge of. Truthfully, she knew nothing of Tara's life before she'd gotten the Smith boys. Clara had never asked the Doctor and had obviously never had an amiable enough conversation with Tara to delve into her past. But suddenly, Clara was certain that something had happened with Tara's mother once upon a time. Something less than ideal.

Clara rose to her feet the minute she spotted the nurse she'd spoken to a few minutes before. She hurried over to her, her thumbnail back between her teeth, and waited tensely. The woman's voice was calm and measured when she spoke.

"He was stabbed a couple times in the chest and shoulder. There's no way to know if anything important was hit until after surgery. But it's probably a good sign that he's still back there. If it'd been hopeless, he would have died on the table already." The nurse told her.

Clara mind struggled to absorb that information. It was like there suddenly wasn't enough space, and everything she knew was jumping around and crashing into this new knowledge, and she had to take a few deep breaths and close her eyes to be able to focus on it. Chest and shoulder.

"How long was the blade?" She asked, her eyes still shut.

"We don't know. Police said a hunting knife, they're normally around four inch blades, sometimes partially serrated. In your case, let's hope it was serrated. It'll leave a nasty wound to stitch up, but it would also slow down the knife's speed and hopefully keep it from hitting any important arteries or organs."

Clara was having trouble understanding the simple fact that one random person could stab her husband, for no reason, and take him away from his family. His children. How did that work? How could they live in a world that worked like that? She opened her eyes and met the nurse's again.

"Do they have who did it?" She asked. "Who stabbed him?"

The woman shrugged. "Now that, I have no idea. But I'm sure the police will want to talk to your husband if he makes it. They can tell you that."

Clara felt something snap inside of her. "_When _he makes it." She corrected, her voice teetering. "When he does. Not if. He's got five kids and I can't live without him. I've tried and it just doesn't work."

Clara hated the pity she saw in the woman's eyes. The nurse pursed her lips and gave Clara's shoulder a light pat.

"Well, for your family's sake, I hope very much that you're right." She said.

She was dazed when she walked back over to Tara, her footsteps careful and soft. She sank down into the chair slowly, her hands pressed to her knees, and shook her head. She found Tara's blue eyes.

"They said he's going to be fine." She lied. She didn't make a conscious decision to, but suddenly she couldn't bear to repeat what she'd just heard. She couldn't handle acknowledging the uncertainty of his future presence in her life. Tara knew she was lying, of course she did, but she didn't call her out on it. Perhaps she was kinder for it.

Ten came by an hour later with food, but Clara couldn't even look at it without feeling liable to get sick. Tara seemed similarly ill, but she ate a little to appease her other son. Ten sat beside Clara quietly for a few minutes, but he seemed unsure what to say. They all sat in stiff, sick silence for another hour. Clara didn't speak until Rory called her, so her kids could hear her voice, and it was only for them that she found the strength to pretend again.

"Is Daddy bloody?" Poppy wanted to know.

Clara almost could have smiled at the sound of her youngest's voice, so innocent and small.

"Dunno, sweetie. I haven't seen him yet." She said honestly.

Rory had put the phone on speaker so she could talk to them all at once, and she had to hold her phone back from her ear every few seconds as all five started demanding answers, their voices trampling each other's loudly.

"Tell him that Rory and I played two games of football and I beat him—twice!" Lottie requested.

"Wait! Mummy! Tell him about my good note home from school!" Bristol asked excitedly.

"And my soufflé!" Miles chipped in.

Clara knew everyone in the waiting room could probably hear every word her kids were yelling, but she didn't care. It was suddenly so calming to hear their voices, to remember that—at least for right now—they were happy and okay. They still had a dad. They still knew little of sacrifice.

"How about once he's awake you lot can come down here and tell him yourselves?" Clara suggested.

Ellie squealed excitedly. "I'm going to make him a lot of drawings! That say 'I love you'!"

Clara smiled sadly. "He'll love that, Ellabell. Maybe you all should make him something."

"AMY, I WANNA MAKE MY DADDY A SOUFFLE!" Miles called to Amy.

Clara heard Amy's slightly-panicked voice in the background. "Oh—um, okay. Right. I'll…Christ, Rory, will you google 'how to make a souffle'?"

Clara wished her son was here so she could hug him close to her. She'd taught all of her children how to make soufflés, but none of them had taken to it like Miles had. He was already making them just as good as Clara could as an adult (with assistance using the oven, of course), and he was only five. It all seemed instinctive to him.

"Daddy loves your soufflés, but the hospital would probably approve of a drawing more, I think." Clara suggested.

"When will you come get us?" Lottie asked.

"After I see Daddy." She reassured her. She couldn't be more honest than that, because she didn't want her kids to know just how uncertain it all was. That she didn't even know for sure if she'd ever see their dad ever again.

"Okay. I'm going to picture message him and then when he wakes up he can see them all." Lottie decided. Ellabell was quick to jump on that idea too, and soon the two were quiet, most likely glued to Lottie's phone and sending the Doctor ridiculous picture after ridiculous picture. He'd love it, though.

"Bristol?" Clara asked. She realized he hadn't said much and that made her worried. She could always count on Bristol to be vying for attention, so his silence was eerie. "Are you okay, love? What are you going to make your dad?"

Bristol sounded weepy. "I dunno. I want to be with you."

Clara spun slowly so her back was to the people in the waiting room and gripped the phone tighter. The heaviness in her heart was suddenly too demanding to ignore, and her eyes prickled with tears she didn't want to shed. She had to clear her throat a few times before she could respond.

"I know, Bristol." She told him. "But I'll see you soon. Everything's going to be okay. I love you."

He sniffed. "I love you too."

Poppy—who had been trying relentlessly for the past few minutes to get a word in edgewise—burst into frustrated tears. Clara heard Rory rushing to her aid and Bristol sighing in exasperation, and she walked closer to the wall, as if she could jump through some portal and lift her toddler into her arms just like that. She wished she could.

"LET ME TALK TO MUMMY!" Poppy cried through her tears. "I WANT TO TALK TO MY MUMMY!"

There were some quiet, muffled arguments as Rory took the phone off speaker, and then all Clara could hear was Poppy's breathing as Rory presumably held the phone to her ear.

"Hi, Mummy." Poppy said. Her voice was nasally and thin. Clara thought she sounded tired and hoped she'd at least get a brief nap.

"Hi, Pop. Are you having fun with Rory?" Clara asked gently.

Poppy's laugh was watery. "I love Worry."

Clara could imagine the warm smile blossoming over Rory's face at those words. Clara smiled slightly herself. "You and Rory are best mates, huh?"

"Yeah!" Poppy agreed. Her voice was back to normal, all traces of distress gone. It always shocked Clara how quickly toddlers could bounce back from tantrums. They were such emotionally volatile little people. "When will you and Daddy be here?"

"As soon as we can. Why? Surely you aren't missing us; you've got Rory to play with!" Clara teased.

Poppy wasn't so amused. "I _am_ missing you and Daddy. I am lots."

Clara spotted the nurse she'd talked to earlier enter the room, her eyes searching the crowd, and she was certain suddenly that it was her the nurse was looking for. She felt her heart squeeze with panic.

"I miss you too, flower. I've got to go, but I'll talk to you in a bit, okay? Be good. I love you so much. Keep your brothers and sisters good, too, and tell them I love them."

Clara waved weakly at the nurse once she ended the phone call. She felt even more unwell when the woman immediately began marching over to her, because not knowing was maybe better than knowing, if what she was going to come to know was life-ending. She was drawn and tense as the woman approached, unable to even move an inch if she wanted, her breath suspended somewhere inside of herself. The nurse stopped in front of her and, slowly, almost agonizingly so, offered her a relieved smile. Clara slouched slightly, her arm rising to cover her eyes as she let out a shaky laugh of hysterical relief.

"He's still out of it, but I've talked to his attending, and she said you're cleared to go ahead and come back." The nurse shared. Clara could hear her smile, and when she lowered her arm, she saw the woman was practically glowing with joy. She probably didn't get to give much good news.

It wasn't until she was following the nurse that she remembered Tara and Ten. She worried that she was being selfish by automatically going first, knowing that only one could go back at a time, but when she glanced back at them quickly they both gave her a small, reassuring nod. She loved them both in that moment. Actually, properly loved them. The feeling would fade, but in that moment, it was there.

Clara's legs quivered the entire walk back through the short, white hallways, her heart pounding hard in her chest. When she walked through the open doorway and saw him—pale and feeble, eyes still closed, thick bandages peeking out from underneath the blanket thrown hastily over his naked body—she found herself thinking words she hadn't though in years. _Thank God. Thank God, thank God. Oh my God. _

Her steps were small as she crossed the room and she rested her hands on top of the bed railing, staring down at his empty face. From up close, she could see things she couldn't from afar. Like the dried flecks of blood on his neck and the purplish shadows underneath his closed eyes. She reached forward and lifted the blanket slightly, just long enough to gently grasp his hand and lift it up above the blankets. She held it softly in hers, her thumb caressing the back of his hand, and looked up, meeting another nurse's eyes.

"Is he okay?" She asked. She stared at the rising and falling of his chest as she waited for the nurse to answer. Nothing had ever looked more like redemption.

"He'll be just fine." The nurse reassured her. "His wife, I presume?"

Clara closed her eyes tightly against her insistent tears and didn't open them again. Her hand slid down his hand until her fingertips could touch his wrist, and then she took strength from the faint pulse she felt there.

"I am." Clara said, when she trusted herself to talk.

"He's been in and out—he's having a difficult time shaking off the anesthesia—but he kept asking for you. Seemed pretty insistent that we all knew you were beautiful."

Clara wasn't sure whether she wanted to smile or make a mental note to smack him. He should have been asking questions about his own wellbeing in his brief moments of lucidity, not rambling like a lovesick teenager. When she counted thirty heartbeats, she was able to cast her tears away. She opened her eyes and looked back at the nurse.

"He's so ridiculous." She said affectionately. She looked back down at him when his hand shifted slightly underneath her fingers. She grasped it again in hers, her body pressing against the railing, automatically drawing closer to him like it always was. He let out a few moans of pain at first, his light eyebrows drawing down and his lips turning into a grimace, but then he was slowly blinking awake. His eyes found Clara easily, without much searching, and he beamed tiredly. He glanced to the nurse.

"There, see? I told you." He told the nurse. He looked back at Clara and then glanced around at the hospital room. He looked deeply concerned. "Are we having another baby? Did I pass out?"

Clara laughed—suddenly and fully—her heart lightening more and more as each confirmation of his safety was given to her.

"No." She told him with a relieved smile, glad to see him at least speaking, even if what he was saying didn't make much sense. "No more babies for us. Do you remember what happened?"

He tried to sit up, only to collapse back onto the pillows with a weak grunt of pain. He craned his neck forward and flung the blanket back, staring accusatorily at his bandages. He looked back up at Clara a moment later, his expression still slightly loopy and dazed. She thought he was about to tell her what happened, but after a moment, he relaxed against the pillows sleepily and smiled again.

"Do you remember our video call when Lottie was a baby and I was in…Ireland?" He asked.

Clara tightened her grip on his hand and looked slowly to the nurse, her concern rising once more. She shot her an uncertain look.

"He's still a little out of it." The nurse whispered reassuringly. "It'll wear off soon."

Clara looked back to her husband and matched his calm smile. She grinned even wider when he gave her hand a feeble squeeze.

"Yeah." She finally said. "I remember it."

He let his eyes close almost dreamily. "Me too."

Clara wasn't sure whether to laugh or not. She let go of his hand slowly for the sake of leaning over the railing and brushing his dirty hair back from his face.

"I'm glad, I guess." She said.

He smiled, but then he tried to sit up again, as if he'd forgotten his previous attempt. His cry of pain was audible this time. He struggled to look behind her from his supine position.

"Where are our kids?" He asked Clara. The pain was thick in his voice.

She hovered her hands uneasily over him, wanting to help, but unsure of how to. She settled with taking his hand once more.

"With Rory and Amy. I didn't…" she stopped and swallowed her defenses. He didn't need to know what she'd been afraid of. He didn't need to know that she'd worried he wouldn't come out of it.

"Oh. Can they come here?" He wondered. He reached up and poked stupidly at one of his bandages. His eyes went wide from the pain.

"Of course." Clara reassured him. She bit her lip and stroked the back of his hand. "Doctor, what happened? They said you were stabbed."

He stopped prodding at the wounds, his face still twisted with agony. He considered her words for a moment.

"Yes, I suppose I was." He finally said, as if it was a mildly interesting fact. He blinked and relaxed back against the pillows, looking slightly stunned. "Oh. I—wow. Clara, there was a man, and he was…tall, with a black suit, and…he wanted…" the Doctor stopped, his eyebrows lowering so far they almost joined. She could almost see the internal strain as he tried to recall. "He kept saying silence would fall, bit mad really, and there was a nan and her granddaughter, and he wanted her handbag…oh, Christ, he had a knife. A big one. And no one was doing anything, they were all just ignoring it like it wasn't happening, and some were watching but no one was _doing _anything and it was horrible and he was screaming at them and he had the knife and I thought he was going to hurt the little girl and I—" he stopped and rubbed his eyes, huffing slightly with frustration. He thought quietly for a moment and then lifted his head, continuing once more. "I remember. I shoved him away. And he hit the shelves. And then he got angry and he stabbed me in my chest and it hurt so badly and then he did it two more times and then people tried to help and the ambulance and police came. And then I was looking at you."

Clara couldn't understand why, of all the times she'd fought back tears today, this was the one time she unsuccessful. Perhaps they were tears from anger or fear. No matter the source, she couldn't stop them.

"I thought he'd taken you from me," she told the Doctor.

The Doctor stared at her tears with a frown, like he couldn't comprehend them, and then he gripped her hand tighter.

"It'll take more than this to take me away." He told her seriously. He grinned suddenly and tiredly. "Besides, if he had, I have no doubts you would have hunt him down and made him regret it."

Clara had to laugh too, because the Doctor was here, and breathing, and smiling. And nothing had ever been so wonderful.

"I would have." She agreed. "I still might."

He reached up, giving no indication to how much that action hurt except for the brief furrowing of his eyebrows, and drew his fingers gently through her hair. She leaned into his touch automatically, her eyes fluttering shut for just a small moment. A moment where all that mattered was him.

"Let's at least let the kids be with us both one more time before you go off to jail." He decided.

She smiled, face still cradled in his hand, eyes still shut. "Who says I'd get caught?"

"I suppose if anyone could pull off the impossible it'd be you."

The Doctor rested for another hour, and then he was given a gown and moved to from the high dependency trauma ward to a general recovery floor. Rory and Amy came by as soon as Clara was able to convince the nurses to look the other way and let all the Doctor's kids in at once (a feat that took another hour in itself). It was very late by then, and all five were exhausted—even Lottie, who was trying her hardest to pretend not to be. Clara helped the Doctor sit up fully and placed a few pillows behind him to prop him up as they all filed in, nervous and almost swaying from exhaustion, and he beamed at them like nothing was wrong at all. And maybe it wasn't, because they were all together after all.

Poppy stumbled over to the bed without hesitation, eyelids drooping, and immediately began hauling herself up onto the high bed. Clara saw one of the nurses edging towards her with a stern look, but Clara shot her a fierce glare as if daring her to touch the three-year-old. The nurse halted her progress towards Poppy straightaway. The Doctor leaned forward despite his injuries and helped pull Poppy the rest of the way up, his face stretched with an affectionate smile as she immediately curled up against him and clung tight.

"Hi, Daddy," she said.

Poppy had burst the bubble so to speak, because as soon as she was up with the Doctor, the rest were hurrying forward. Miles was second up, claiming his father's left side, and soon they were all carefully joining, heading Clara gentle warnings about not pressing on his bandages. Lottie, Ellabell, and Bristol sat on the sides, their legs lifted and hanging over the railings, their bodies turned towards their dad. Bristol's face was full of respect.

"You got stabbed, huh?" He stated with wide eyes.

Clara shot a panicked look at Rory and Amy, who shrugged apologetically.

"Rose told us. Your kids are big on eavesdropping. You should talk to them about that." Amy suggested.

Clara thought back to when she was a child, and how most of her scoldings were about eavesdropping. As a parent, she understood how frustrating it was, but then again her kids wouldn't even exist today had she not eavesdropped that Christmas. She stepped closer to the edge of the bed and set a brief hand on Bristol's head, beginning damage control. All five were looking at the Doctor with shocked expressions, except Poppy, who was already asleep. Her head was resting just below one of his bandages, and Clara examined his face to see if it was hurting him, but if it was he wasn't showing it.

"He's going to be all right." She reassured them, answering the shaded worries broadcasted on their faces (Lottie's especially).

Lottie leaned forward a bit, twisting her torso so she was facing her father more directly. She touched the edge of the bandage on his shoulder gently, her eyes wide.

"Did he stab you everywhere there's a bandage?" She asked fearfully.

The Doctor leaned forward painfully and kissed Lottie's forehead, giving her back a gentle and comforting pat.

"Yes, but I'm just fine." He said calmly. "Just a few wounds. They missed my heart by a few centimeters."

Miles—ever the thinker—looked up at Clara with a furrowed brow.

"Why?" He wanted to know.

Clara tilted her head slightly to the side, appraising Miles' expression.

"Why did someone stab him?" She asked.

Miles nodded once, his lips parted and his face pale. He looked back down at his dad like he couldn't understand what he was seeing. Clara and the Doctor exchanged a look.

"There are bad people and good people in the world, and a whole bunch of people in between that, and it was a bad person who did it. Bad people hurt others instead of helping them." The Doctor explained.

Miles thought about that, his mouth turning down into a frown.

"It was a bad person that hurt you." He surmised.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes. He wanted to hurt a little girl, but I said no, no way!"

Miles nodded. "Because the little girl was good."

The Doctor smiled. "Precisely."

Ellie spoke up. "But you're good, Daddy. If bad people want to hurt other people, why don't they just hurt other bad people?"

Clara thought it was a good point. She could tell the pain and questions were weighing on her husband, because he relaxed fully against the pillows, his expression twisting ever so slightly with discomfort. He probably wanted nothing more than to sleep right now.

Clara spoke up. "Bad people don't have much interest in being sensible."

Lottie was furious. Clara could see it in her eyes, and she'd be a liar if she said she didn't understand the feeling. "And he just gets away with it? He can just stab someone just because he wants to and no one can do anything about it? How is that fair?"

The easy response would have been _life isn't fair_, but Clara had always hated hearing that as a child. Childhood was the time when you were supposed to be granted just a little time to believe that life did make sense, that it followed some sort of moral code.

"Never." The Doctor swore. "No one ever gets away with hurting anyone else, regardless of if they're caught or not. He'll think about it every night and he'll never escape that. Remember, Lottie. Sometimes the punishments you give yourself are infinitely worse than any punishment someone else could give you. Most of the time, actually."

Bristol was decided. "Well, I wanna stab him, and see how he likes it."

Clara frowned at those words and took her son's face in her hands, peering seriously into his brown eyes. They softened underneath his mother's stare.

"Hurting someone else doesn't fix anything, love. Not ever." She promised. "It just makes you bad, too."

He sighed in annoyance, but nodded. Clara leaned forward and kissed his forehead. Very soon now he'd reach an age where he probably wouldn't want her to do that anymore, so Clara made the most of the time she had now, when her little boy was still her little boy and he loved Mummy most of all.

The Doctor added something to her correction.

"And you always try to help people who need it. You save who you can and you remember who you can't, and at the end of the day, you know you've been the best version of yourself there is."

It took a lot of coaxing to get the kids to go back with Amy and Rory, who'd been forced to wait out in the waiting room right after dropping the kids off. Lottie pleaded to stay the night at the hospital for at least three minutes, but finally stopped once a nurse informed her that there could only be one overnight visitor at a time. Ellie and Bristol dragged their feet stubbornly, but they didn't throw fits, something Clara was grateful for. Miles clung stubbornly to Clara's leg and refused to be parted, but finally Rory's bribery of midnight banoffee pies got through to him. He reluctantly trudged after Rory, turning and giving Clara sad looks every few steps. Poppy didn't even wake in the move from the Doctor's bed to Rory's arm. The little girl was wiped out from the day's dramas.

Later, when Dave finally arrived, he volunteered to go straight to Amy and Rory's and get the kids. He brought them back to Clara and the Doctor's house and stayed with them, something that greatly improved Bristol's outlook on the entire situation.

It was later still, sitting by the Doctor's side, when Tara entered. Clara had negotiated with the nurses again until they agreed to let Tara back too. Clara rose from her seat beside the Doctor when Tara walked in, wanting to give the two privacy like Tara had given her, but Tara merely shook her head.

"No, it's okay. You can stay." She told Clara. There was no ice or malice to her tone, something the Doctor picked up on immediately.

Clara smiled a bit at her, sinking back into the chair.

"Thank you," she said genuinely.

The Doctor was suspicious.

"Dear God, what went on while I was asleep?" He demanded. He looked from his mother's face to Clara's. "You're not bickering!"

Clara crossed her arms at the same moment Tara scoffed.

"Don't push it, John." She warned him.

She walked fully into the room and stood on his other side, her hand falling to his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

"I'm fine." He said dismissively. "Sorry, I'm more interested in your sudden amiability with my wife."

Tara and Clara met eyes for a second, and she knew what her next words were.

"We both want the same thing today. For you to be okay." Clara said flatly.

The Doctor gave them each a pointed, almost exasperated look.

"Isn't that _always_ what you both want?" He pointed out.

They both opened their mouths to argue, to say _no_, or maybe even, _yes, but we can't agree on the means for that to happen_, but suddenly they were both uneasy. The closed their mouths and avoided the Doctor's eyes.

"Yeah." Clara finally said. "I suppose it is."

He held out a hand for Tara, who grasped it with a teary smile, and then offered his right to Clara. She took it gently, her heart warming at his tender smile.

"Maybe it could always be like this. Maybe we could let the past go." The Doctor suggested carefully. Clara resisted the urge to hum a soap opera theme. He smiled sadly. "I'm realizing that I could die any day, that any of us could, and I'd like to remember more laughter and less yelling. I'd like that a lot."

And because Clara could do anything for him, always and forever, she met Tara's eyes. Tara seemed to have the same devotion in hers.

"Perhaps we could." Tara said, a little stiffly. She reached with her other hand and touched the Doctor's cheek, her lips quivering. "Oh, Doctor. Sometimes alive can be so scary."

He shook his head, looking at her bemusedly. "Not as scary as dead."

But Tara was certain. "Oh yes, because when you're dead, you have nothing to lose. Alive can be over."

Those words squeezed Clara's heart and burned her eyes. She gripped the Doctor's hand tighter, realizing the truth in those words perhaps more than anyone else in the room could. She glanced at Tara again, swallowing her pride and long-held grudges of past traumas and insults.

"I like your blouse."

It was small and awkward, but Tara smiled slightly, the corners of her mouth perking up. She inclined her head in thanks.

"And I like your loyalty."

The Doctor let out an overjoyed laugh.

"If all it took to get you two talking was getting stabbed, I would have done so _ages _ago!" He exclaimed.

Clara glared at him at those words.

"No. You're staying away from mad people and sharp objects for a long while. I can't handle a night like this ever again."

Tara stayed for another two hours, but then Ten arrived to take her back home. He ruffled his brother's hair and gave Clara a pat on the top of her head, something Clara ignored just this once. Clara left the overnight cot bed untouched and carefully curled up against the Doctor's uninjured side, his hospital blanket pulled up over both of them and their legs intertwined. His hospital gown was stiff and his bandages kept bleeding through, but Clara had never been happier to be somewhere than she was to be in his arms.

"Sometimes it all gets so hectic, with my job and all the kids and the bills…and then something like this happens, and it all becomes so simple." She shared. He shifted closer to her, his fingers gentle as they traced down her spine. She let out the breath she'd been holding all day, melting easily into his skin. "You're all that matters. Our kids are all that matters. As long as we're alive and happy, everything's fine. Bad credit charges don't matter, water leaks don't matter. Awful teachers don't matter and irritable coworkers don't matter. You're alive. You're _alive. _I'll never understand how my dad made it through."

The Doctor pulled back slightly, peering down at her in the dim light from the beeping machines surrounding the bed. He kissed her lips and, for a moment, Clara was certain they were sharing the same breath.

"I know how he made it through. With you. That's how I always make it through, too."

Nineteen years, hundreds of thousands of miles, an untraceable amount of midnight words, dozens of accidents, five births, and here they were. Here they were.


End file.
